Outside the Pendragon Institute
by ForzaDelDestino
Summary: Sequel to "Inside the Pendragon Institute." Arthur, Assistant Director of the well-known museum of medieval art, plans a summer visit to London with the Institute's newest and most gifted conservator, Merlin Emrys. What could possibly go wrong? AU Merthur
1. Chapter 1

**OUTSIDE THE PENDRAGON INSTITUTE (Sequel to "Inside the Pendragon Institute")**

**Chapter 1: How John the Baptist Nearly Lost His Head**

When Lance Dulac, curator of arms and armor at the Pendragon Instititute, staggered in to work on a Monday morning in April, he barely noticed that the small weeping cherry tree in the marble urn next to the entrance was in bloom. He was still in the throes of recovery from the bachelor party that had been held for him in the back room of an upscale pub, down at the South Street Seaport. The party had been on _Saturday_, and his head was still reeling. It had been organized by Will, the objects conservator, and attended by every single one of the Institute's male employees. Lance wondered whether they were all feeling as fuzzy and wrung-out as he was, and decided that it was very likely, considering the amount of alcohol that had been consumed in the back room of that pub.

His suspicions were confirmed not ten feet inside the museum, when he missed colliding with Leon, the head of Security, by inches. Leon looked alert, and as stalwart and fit as he ordinarily did, but the rims of his eyes were distinctly reddened with the remnants of hangover, and his eyelids were slightly droopy.

Leon chuckled at the sight of his grim-faced associate. "You should see Gaius," he said encouragingly as Lance put out a hand to steady himself. "He's dimmed the lights in the Conservation studios, and he's sitting down there holding an ice pack to his forehead."

Of course Gaius, head of the Conservation Department, was at least seventy, so this was to be expected. He was the second-oldest employee at the Institute (Geoffrey Monmouth, the librarian, was a few years ahead of him), more than a decade older than the Senior Director, Uther Pendragon. Fortunately for the sanity of everybody on staff, Uther now spent most of his time in London, making only periodic (and blessedly brief) visits to the Institute in New York City.

"See you at ten, yeah?" Leon went on, hoping that Lance would be able to stay upright until coffee break, when he could join his equally wobbly colleagues – most of them, like himself, expatriate Brits – in the staff lounge. As the Institute, like most museums in New York, was closed to the public on Mondays, their current state would go unnoticed by the outside world.

"By the way, Gwen's upstairs, and she's been grilling me about what went on at the party. She wants to know if we had a stripper."

Lance groaned, and then put one hand to his aching left temple. "Will thought about hiring one," he said in a half-whisper. "But he knew he wouldn't be able to get away with it."

Leon laughed outright. "No doubt," he replied, glancing up and down the hall to make certain none of the female employees were anywhere about. "Gwen has her spies. Well…I'll see you in an hour, then."

Lance grunted in response and headed down the hallway towards his office, where he felt certain he had a bottle of aspirin in his desk drawer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In his office at the other end of the hall, behind his massive desk of highly polished dark wood, Arthur Pendragon, Assistant Director, was reading the description of the Pendragon Institute as it appeared in the latest issue of the annually published Museum Directory:

_**THE PENDRAGON INSTITUTE OF MEDIEVAL AND RENAISSANCE ART**_

_Email: info __**at**__ peninstitute __**dot**__ org_

_Website: www __**dot**__ peninsitute __**dot**__ org_

_Founded: 1950_

_Collections: Medieval and Renaissance paintings, sculpture, ceramics, tapestries and other textiles, arms and armor, metalwork; literary, historical, and music manuscripts; musical instruments._

_Key personnel: Dir., Uther Pendragon Jr.; Assist. Dir., Arthur Pendragon; Dir. Finance, John H. Draca; Dir. Library and Museum Services, Geoffrey Monmouth; Senior Cur., Morgana LeFay; Cur. Arms and Armor, Lance Dulac; Head, Conservation, Gaius Caledonian; Obj. Conservator, William Percival; Textile Conservator, Gwen L. Cameliard; Assist. Conservator for Paper Conservation, Merlin Emrys_

_Governing Authority: non-profit organization, tax exempt_

_Research Fields: all fields of collections_

_Publications: quarterly bulletin; monthly calendar of events_

_Activities: guided tours, lectures, gallery talks, concerts, education programs for children, adults, and school groups…_

Arthur stopped reading and lifted his head as his office door opened and the senior curator, his stepsister Morgana, entered with her usual rapid step, announced by the staccato tap of her four-inch heels.

"You didn't knock," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "You're getting to be almost as bad as Merlin."

He thoroughly expected a snarky response but, surprisingly, Morgana assumed an air of sympathetic concern.

"I thought I'd stop in and have a look at you," Morgana replied briskly. "To see if you're in as dreadful a state as every other man on this staff. Aren't you coming to the lounge? It's almost ten."

"Of course I am," said the Assistant Director, hunting through the papers on his desk for a pen. As he turned his head Morgana eyed his chiseled profile and erect posture, noting the absence of hangover bleariness. Arthur's blond hair was as neatly arranged as always, and when he turned to face her there was nothing in his handsome face to hint at Saturday evening's self-indulgence, except for a hint of fatigue in the blue eyes. He pushed his chair back from his desk, stood up, lithe and athletic in his well-cut jacket, and _sneezed_.

"Allergies," he said glumly, reaching for his handkerchief. "Pollen. Half the bloody trees in the park are beginning to sprout bloody flowers. Is there anything you need to tell me, or did you simply come in here to gloat over my condition?"

Morgana had never been one to mince words. "Uther's just sent me an email. He wants to talk to us via Skype tomorrow – you, me, Gaius, oh, and Merlin. He didn't say what it was about, but of course it will have to take precedence over anything else we need to do."

Arthur ignored the familiar sarcasm.

"At least he's given up the idea of you moving back to London and working from there," Morgana went on. "That never made any sense, although we both know why he wanted you to do that."

Arthur shot his stepsister a wry look but remained silent.

"I think you had better have some coffee."

The Assistant Director sneezed again. "You go ahead, Morgana, I'll need to find a box of tissues. Tell Lance not to eat all the chocolate scones."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time Arthur entered the staff lounge nearly all of the regulars were there, ensconced in armchairs, sprawled on the sofas, or waiting their turn to toast bread or muffins in the toaster-oven. A coffee urn and teapot stood on one of the tables, and several male staffers, including Lance, had poured themselves stiff shots of inky-black espresso.

Gwen, Lance's fiancée and the Institute's textile conservator, sat down next to Morgana and quirked an eyebrow at the sight.

"I'd feel sorry for them," she whispered, "if it weren't for the fact that they must have had a blast getting themselves into this condition. It's amazing, though. Look at Lance," she continued, no longer whispering. "Even when he's like this he's never anything but gorgeous."

Glancing over at the blinking armor specialist, Morgana could only agree. Dark, slim but muscular, and with the sort of face teenage girls swooned over, Lance was undeniably one of the best-looking men she knew.

"Of course he's not the first gorgeous man you ever hooked up with," the Assistant Director murmured under his breath as he sat down on Gwen's other side.

Gwen shot Arthur a look of exasperated affection. He had been one of her closest friends for years, but every now and then he felt compelled to tease her about their brief university romance.

"So, gentlemen," Morgana said brightly, sweeping the room with her eyes. "Tell us all about the lovely bachelor party."

There was a collective groan, and Will sniggered. "Luckily there were cabs queueing at the curb just outside, so we were able to get everybody home intact."

"Good lord," sniffed Morgana with a touch of disdain. "Were all of you completely pickled, Will?"

"Well…his lordship could still walk," Will replied, jerking an elbow in Arthur's direction. "But the groom-to-be…I've never seen him that rat-arsed."

Morgana frowned. "I hope you don't use that sort of language when you're giving tours," she said severely.

"No fucking way," said Will demurely. "I'm as good as gold, I swear. But to answer your question, Morgana, yeah, pretty nearly everybody was wasted."

"Not Merlin," Gwen interrupted rather anxiously. "Surely not."

The eyes of every staff member present flickered in Arthur's direction, and then just as quickly turned away, before he could notice.

"Oh, I had my eye on him," Gaius said comfortably as he attempted to balance a cup and saucer on his knee. "You know how anything stronger than _ginger beer_ affects him."

"Where _is_ Merlin?" Lance asked, having suddenly noticed that the conservator in question was not present.

"Downstairs in Objects Conservation," Gaius answered. "Will's working on the gilt-bronze reliquary we're loaning to Philadelphia, and he has a tight deadline. So Merlin's helping him out by stabilizing the surface of our John the Baptist sculpture. It _is_ a mess – so much old insect damage. If we don't get him stabilized, John's head could fall off before the end of the year."

"How appropriate," murmured Gwen, smiling.

"He was at a tricky stage…I believe he's applying some B-72. So he thought he'd stay with it and skip the break."

"B-72…that sounds like a fighter jet, or a rock band," said Leon, grinning. "Or some unbelievably toxic chemical."

"It's a nice acrylic polymer, that's all," replied Gaius loftily. "Not to worry."

"I'll go downstairs and have a look before lunch," Arthur said casually. "That sculpture's given us no end of trouble. I shouldn't be surprised if its head fell off just to spite us."

Then he sneezed again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fifteen minutes after the ten o'clock break, the Assistant Director walked down the stairs from the ground floor to the basement, where the Objects Conservation and Paper Conservation studios were located. Adjacent to them was the Conservation Department lab, where Gaius could often be found stirring up some odd-smelling concoction or other. Today he had created a mild adhesive made from seaweed, and the vaguely salty scent had drifted into the corridor, making Arthur wrinkle his nose.

Although the youngest and most recently acquired of the four Institute conservators, Merlin Emrys was the only one (apart from Gaius) qualified to work in both paper and objects conservation. Ever since his student days, other people in the art conservation field had known about his so-called magic touch. It was to his credit, Gaius always said, that Merlin was so modest, as several museums had practically fought to get him on staff before Uther had managed to recruit him for the Institute. He was generally to be found in Paper Conservation, as this was the area for which he had been hired, but today he was stationed in the Objects Conservation studio, and when Arthur peered into the antiseptic white room he could see Merlin's pale face and black hair over the shoulder of the problematic sculpture. The rest of him was hidden by the wooden figure, and when Arthur coughed he kept his eyes on his work but raised his eyebrows with a half-smile.

As Arthur approached he finally looked up and emerged from behind John the Baptist, eyes refocusing, his hair, shorter than it had been when he first arrived at the Institute, as spiky as a child's who had just gotten out of bed, the abbreviated fringe revealing a high, elegant forehead. Still slim to the point of thinness, his face all bold bones and creamy skin, eyes blue beneath black brows, a wide, full-lipped mouth whose boyish grin nipped and jolted and did other funny things to Arthur's heart.

"It was in decent condition last year, to the eye, anyway," he murmured, dabbing at the sculpture with a fine-tipped brush. "And we've had it treated for insects, but look! Some old damage was hidden by nineteenth-century repairs." As he spoke he continued to work on the wooden sculpture, applying B-72 with a careful but rather generous hand.

"Are you certain you should use that much, _Mer_lin?" asked Arthur, perfectly aware that the young conservator knew what he was doing, whereas he, himself (and most of his colleagues), didn't have a clue about this sort of thing.

"I might as well dunk the Baptist in a river of this stuff," Merlin muttered, staring at the insect-pocked surface of the wood.

"I wouldn't if I were you," rebuked Gaius from the other side of the room.

"It didn't look that bad when we let Santa Barbara borrow it last fall." Arthur had a fondness for the fourteenth-century statue, as its loan to the Santa Barbara Museum of Art had marked the first time he and Merlin…

Then he sneezed again.

"Watch it!" Merlin said almost sharply, motioning Arthur back. "Don't _sneeze_ on the art, for pity's sake. Your bacteria are just what this fellow needs."

Arthur stepped back, rolling his eyes histrionically.

Gaius gave a dry, paternal chuckle. "Merlin's become very proprietary about this piece," he murmured. "Won't let anybody near it until he's finished with it."

"Right," said Arthur, still rolling his eyes. "When you have a spare moment, _Mer_lin, I need to have a word." As usual, he put a strong inflection on the first syllable of the young man's name. "With you and Gaius, that is. Morgana's had an email from Uth…from my father. He wants a conference call with her, and with Gaius, tomorrow morning."

"And with whom else?" Gaius asked, crossing the room.

"Myself and Merlin."

It was Merlin's turn to roll his eyes. "Great. Why me?"

There were, he felt, a number of reasons why Uther might be displeased with him.

When it came to skeptical expressions and raised eyebrows, there was nobody on staff who could compete with Gaius. "There's no need to take that tone, my boy," he said mildly. "Let's see what Uther wants. If I'm guessing correctly, he has his eye on a lovely, overpriced fresco, or sculpture, or tapestry, and he wants to discuss it with us before he overrides everybody's objection and spends the Institute's money to buy it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: What Uther Wants**

"Do you have any idea what Father has in mind to talk about?" Arthur asked Morgana quietly. He was sitting in her office, looking halfheartedly through the Museum Directory, as she hastily tidied her desk. It was nearly five o'clock, and from the look of things the senior curator had a dinner date.

Morgana shrugged as she reached for her powder compact. "Gaius is betting it's about some object coming up at auction," she murmured, dabbing powder on her nose.

"Really," drawled Arthur, watching as his beautiful stepsister swept her dark hair on top of her head and fastened it with a diamond-studded pin. "My guess is that he's heard about you and, uh, the head of our Security Department."

"Oh please, Arthur," Morgana scoffed acidly. "Why would he need to speak to Gaius and Merlin – or you, for that matter – if all he had on his mind was my transgression with someone he considers a social inferior."

"All right, all right," sighed Arthur, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I was simply joking."

"I should hope so," Morgana said, somewhat mollified. "But if Uther ever should hear of, well, you know, I'll expect you to take my side in the ensuing battle. After all, I've championed your, uh, alliance with our junior conservator. And I think it's rather charming that Mordred has, as well. I've never seen that child take to anyone quite so quickly before."

Arthur gave a half-hearted laugh. His intellectually precocious little half-brother emailed Merlin on a regular basis, and had indeed expressed his approval of him to their father. Not that this would be likely to change Uther's views on the subject of any connection between his son and his son's conservator other than a professional one.

"Both Mordred and I think it's one of the nicest things that's ever happened to you," Morgana continued relentlessly. "Though how Merlin can put up with you is absolutely amazing to me."

"Morgs, _please,_" Arthur said in a long-suffering voice. "My private life is-"

"I know, it's private and off-limits, and you don't want anybody to talk about it, as usual," came the response. "But the fact is that everybody does, and you know it."

Arthur bit his tongue and refrained from telling Morgana precisely what he was thinking of her at the moment.

"Uther's ringing us at ten inthe morning," Morgana said almost plaintively as she reached for her handbag. "Skyping us, I mean. So dress nicely, Arthur, and paste a smile on your face, and after he's finished his lecture on what we should be doing to run this museum more efficiently, he'll get round to telling us what he wants."

"I always dress well," Arthur replied, getting to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow then, in your office at ten. Tell lover boy Leon not to keep you out too late," he added with a touch of friendly maliciousness, for the sole purpose of watching her flush with something actually close to embarrassment.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin was waiting for him on the front steps at ten minutes past five. The fading rays of spring sunlight had turned the stone balustrade against which he was leaning to gold, and Merlin's head was tipped back, his eyes closed, to capture the last of the warmth. There was a little color in his thin cheeks, and Arthur resisted the urge to touch that narrow, angular, oddly beautiful face.

Instead, he said "Ahem," and tapped him lightly on the upper arm.

Merlin's eyes popped open and he grinned sheepishly.

"I was daydreaming," he murmured, straightening up and rubbing his temples with both fists. "Are you starving? Or just normally hungry?"

"Starving," replied Arthur, shifting his briefcase from one hand to the other. "Famished. And what were you daydreaming about?"

"Actually, I was thinking about that wretched sculpture," Merlin said, frowning. "I'm trying to figure out how to reinforce its neck."

Arthur bit back a smile, because it was difficult to think about the John the Baptist sculpture without remembering the first time he _had_ touched Merlin intimately. That had been after the opening night party of an exhibition to which the statue had been loaned. He and Merlin had gone back to their Santa Barbara hotel and, after a minimum amount of negotiation disguised as verbal fencing, had quite simply fallen into bed together.

Well, they had fallen into bed together many times since, and it didn't seem likely that they would ever get tired of doing so. This habit had been made much easier by the fact that, at one point during the winter, Merlin had finally moved into Arthur's flat. He had been spending a fair amount of time there anyway, but had not expected Arthur to suggest that they live together so soon. The Assistant Director had been surprisingly adamant, and their conversation on the subject had occasioned some of Arthur's most prattish behavior, and one of their most memorable arguments.

"You're always saying that you like your privacy," Merlin had said emphatically. "You'd hate me for being in your way."

"You're talking rubbish, as usual."

"People would talk, of course."

"They're talking anyway, you id-"

"Don't you _need_ your personal space and a break from Institute personnel?" Merlin had said hastily.

"Personal space be damned!" Arthur had retorted. "You know what I need."

"Erm," said Merlin, doubtfully. "So you're only thinking about sex?"

"No, you bloody idiot!" Arthur growled, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and yanking him in.

"So you _are_ just thinking about sex, then," Merlin had stammered half-jokingly after several minutes.

"No I'm not, you blinkered imbecile!" snapped Arthur, forgetting to even try to sound lover-like. "I want _you_, the sex _and_ everything else that comes with you, including your clumsiness, and your annoying retorts, and your insubordinate manner, and your incomprehensible accent, and your…your…bloody vegetarianism! Everything, do you understand?"

(He realized later that this must have been the most arrogant and obnoxious declaration of love anyone had ever made.)

"For pity's sake, Arthur," Merlin had said mildly. "You're _shouting_."

"_Mer_lin," Arthur muttered sharply, but the expression on his face had been that of a child about to be bereft of his favorite something-or-other. "Does that mean yes?"

"Yes," was Merlin's barely audible reply. "God, you're a possessive prat," he had added in a normal tone of voice, flattening his palms against Arthur's chest.

Remembering this exchange of less than two months ago, Arthur smiled rather broadly but when Merlin asked him what was so amusing, he said that he had been thinking of cutting back the spending limit on Morgana's business charge accounts.

They walked to Arthur's flat along streets lined with trees that were beginning to blossom, and Arthur sneezed several times. Merlin offered him a packet of tissues.

"I thig I deed to see an allergist," the Assistant Director complained, as they crossed the lobby. "I cad breathe."

"It'll be better upstairs," Merlin said sympathetically. "The new air purifier's been running all day."

It was indeed better in the flat, and after Arthur dropped his briefcase in the hall they made their way to the kitchen, where they poured huge tumblers of ice water and sat down to unwind. Merlin pulled a vegetable casserole out of the fridge and Arthur (who avoided having anything to do with cooking if he could help it) deigned to cover it and shove it into the oven, because Merlin wasn't certain it would do well in the microwave.

As Merlin unearthed the makings of a salad, Arthur (who was supposed to be concocting the dressing) wandered into the study, where he checked his computer for emails. His stomach somersaulted unpleasantly when he noticed an email from Uther at the very top of the list. Sighing with trepidation, he opened it, gesturing for Merlin to read it over his shoulder.

_Dear Arthur, I will be speaking with you and some of your staff tomorrow, but I wanted to inform you that I've been making arrangements for your visit in June. As you know, I'm having some renovation work done on the Belgravia house, so we will be living elsewhere, temporarily. I shall let you know when everything has been finalized. As you are bringing Merlin Emrys with you, I may arrange to introduce him to some London conservators. There will be excellent collections on display at the museums here this summer, and I recommend that you see them during your stay. Incidentally, do you remember the London collector with the tapestries, Cornelius Sigan? He is one of the matters I wish to discuss with you and your colleagues tomorrow. Affectionately, U._

"Oh hell," muttered Arthur, the corners of his mouth turning down. "What is he on about? He knows perfectly well I have no idea of what he's been doing with the house. Cornelius Sigan? I remember him, although quite frankly I'd prefer not to. Well, at least he's quite come to terms with my bringing _you_."

"At least on the surface," Merlin muttered, raising his eyes to the ceiling. He had to tread carefully when it came to the dictatorial Senior Director, because although Arthur found his father frustrating, and although Merlin knew how much Uther set both Arthur and Morgana's teeth on edge, he was also aware that Arthur had spent most of his life (consciously or subconsciously) trying to win his father's approval.

"Cornelius Sigan? Why talk to us about him. He's an odd bloke...definitely something dodgy about him. And…Merlin? What is it?"

"Nothing," said Merlin. But he was clearly thinking about something because his face wore that serious, withdrawn expression that Arthur found so fu…so intensely irresistible.

He reached out and caught Merlin lightly about the waist, his hands sliding up under the disreputable tee shirt to touch the smooth skin of Merlin's back. Merlin gave a little gulp and leaned in to him, raising his face so that their mouths could connect in one of their gut-wrenchingly satisfying kisses.

Neither had been able to figure out whether the mind blowing quality of their kisses was due to the unique chemistry between them, or to some sort of innate kissing ability (Arthur occasionally bragged about his), but it never seemed to go stale or become any less exciting than it had been from the first. As well, Arthur never ceased to marvel at how perfectly they fit together. They were more or less the same height; Merlin was a scant half-inch taller, a difference that was not really noticeable when they stood side by side. And he was so much slighter than the athletic, blond Assistant Director that he gave the impression of being smaller.

"_M__ine_," Arthur whispered urgently against Merlin's charmingly prominent right ear, pulling him closer.

"Yours," replied Merlin in a muffled voice. "After dinner, anyway. I thought you said you were starving."

"Right," said Arthur, releasing his conservator and trying to ignore his racing pulse as he walked back to the kitchen and hunted in a drawer for forks and spoons. "Switch off the computer, would you, Merlin," he called over the sound of rattling cuttlery. "Dinner first. Then we…oh, bugger!"

"There's no need to get graphic," Merlin said reproachfully.

"No, you idiot," came Arthur's voice at its most irritated. "it's the casserole…I forgot to turn off the oven. It's burnt to a bloody crisp!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: How Morgana Nearly Put Her Foot in It**

"Merlin," said Arthur thoughtfully, wrinkling his brow.

There was no reply.

"_Mer_lin," said Arthur sternly, and he felt his young conservator move slightly, lifting his head. He had been nearly asleep, sprawled on top of Arthur, and Arthur's left arm had gone quite numb as a result.

"Sorry to wake you," Arthur murmured, actually managing to sound apologetic as he reached out with his working arm to switch on the bedside light. "Just a little reminder. My father's Skyping us tomorrow, so you might want to wear something other than one of your dreadful tee shirts to work. Not that he's likely to sack you because of the way you dress…still, you may as well look presentable. I know I could have said all of this in the morning, but this gives you a bit of advance notice. I didn't want to wait until the alarm goes off and then watch you flailing about madly in the closet, trying to choose something appropriate."

"Besides," he added, "You know how he feels about the impression we make on the public. We're meant to appear eminently professional. If he sees you looking like you just crawled out of an American university frat party, he'll think I can't control my own staff."

Merlin snorted. "You woke me up for _that_?"

He then gave Arthur one of _those_ looks that made Arthur want to run his hands down the whole milky-pale length of him.

"The public doesn't see me," Merlin continued drowsily. "I'm always in one of the Conservation studios. I don't have to woo the public or the press, the way you have to do on occasion."

"_Mer_lin," said Arthur.

"Gaius doesn't exactly wear a suit everyday. In fact, he almost never does."

"_Mer__lin_."

"But I'll dress properly tomorrow, to make He Who Must Not Be Named happy."

Arthur grunted and rolled his eyes. "I know he can be...difficult. To say the least. But he's always under pressure, and he's been out of sorts lately."

"Erm, I wonder _why_," said Merlin with just a touch of sarcasm. "The poor man, it makes me weep just thinking about it."

"Spare me, please," Arthur responded with mock distress. "No man is worth your tears. Least of all my father."

Merlin decided not to touch that one.

"You actually look...rather nice, _Mer_lin, when you're neatly dressed."

Merlin's fingers moved in the golden hair on Arthur's chest. "What was it You-Know-Who was going to talk to us about?"

"Among other things, a collector in London," replied Arthur, yawning. "You don't know him, I expect. _I _haven't seen him in years, thank God. Is that your stomach making those odd noises, or is it mine?"

"Probably mine," Merlin said against Arthur's collarbone. "It's full of burnt casserole. But then, so is yours, so I can't quite tell."

"That wasn't entirely my fault," Arthur muttered. "You distracted me."

"It's not _my_ fault if you can't control your lower instincts," came the response, accompanied by a deliberately angelic smile.

Arthur retaliated by rolling over neatly so that their positions were reversed, and Merlin was pinned underneath him.

"Got you now," he said, staring down into the limpid blue eyes of his conservator. "I can give free rein to my lower instincts, at leisure, and there isn't much you can do about it."

"You're insatiable," Merlin announced with a critical frown, but he made no move to get away.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"We have to go without ten o'clock break, so that Uther can tell us how we need to do better, and we must improve this, that, and the other thing, and then he'll ask us why we object to raising the entrance fee to the museum," Morgana said crossly as she watched her stepbrother, Gaius, and Merlin file silently into her office. "And remind me why it is we're doing this in _my_ office instead of Arthur's?"

"Because you said so yesterday, and because your computer has the better monitor," the Assistant Director replied, sitting down on the sofa next to Gaius with Merlin safely on Gaius' other side. He was clad in a pale aqua Brooks Brothers shirt, with a darker blue tie, held in place by a narrow gold clip. Gaius had abandoned his customary oversized cardigan (a shapeless garment reminiscent of a wooly sheepdog) in favor of a neatly pressed jacket, and Merlin wore a cream-colored shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, rather than his usual plain Gap tee or striped rugby polo.

Morgana's lips tightened. "I can see you've all dressed for the occasion," she uttered in tones of doom as she seated herself next to Arthur. She herself was decked out in a blue-green dress of silk jersey. "It's so silly; I mean, he isn't even _here_."

"Yes, but he can still see us, thanks to the miracle of modern computer technology," said Gaius drily, eyeing the monitor with distaste. He himself only resorted to computers when it was absolutely necessary, although he conceded that they were useful for keeping up with recent research in the field, and for staying in touch with colleagues and friends.

As it happened, they were all grateful for their collective nattiness when Uther's face appeared on the computer screen. The Senior Director was impeccably dressed as always, his clothing elegant, understated, and unquestionably expensive. As he scanned the faces of his New York staff, his son could detect storm clouds gathering on Morgana's brow, and he could see Merlin fidgeting at the other end of the sofa.

"Good morning…that is, it's morning where you are," said the Senior Director in the deceptively jovial voice he often used when addressing employees and associates. "Well, Gaius! Good morning, Arthur, Morgana." He was silent for a moment and then his eyes slid sideways.

"Ah, Merlin," he added in a neutral tone of voice, and Arthur could almost feel Merlin wince.

"There are several things I wanted to discuss," Uther intoned, and for the next ten minutes they listened politely as he wondered aloud whether they couldn't have two special exhibitions in the fall and winter instead of one, and why it was that the public wasn't spending more money in the Gift Shop. From this he proceeded to suggest that their scruples about raising the museum's admission fee were sheer nonsense, and why in heaven's name couldn't they charge as much as the Museum of Modern Art?

"MOMA is a larger museum," said Arthur calmly. "With a collection that's, well, a bit more extensive than ours, and a bit more popular with the general public. There have been plenty of complaints about their high admission fee. Fortunately for most people, they're free on Friday evenings."

"And you're not forgetting that we're still in an economic recession of sorts?" Morgana added sweetly, between clenched teeth. "Things may be improving, but people can't afford to pay a fortune to look at art."

"Ah yes, well," replied Uther, dismissing the public's economic woes with a wave of one hand. "Well, let's at least consider it, shall we? For the present, the fee remains the same."

There was a carefully suppressed sigh of relief, as Arthur and Morgana began to relax, and Merlin wondered why on earth he had been asked to participate in this meeting at all.

"It's time we had a new guidebook to the museum," Uther went on, smiling what Merlin called – although only to himself – his crocodile smile. "Arthur, I know you're too busy to deal with it. I'd like you, Morgana, and you, Gaius, to put together the text and photographs. We can publish it next year."

Gaius could be heard clucking under his breath, but he put up no objection.

"Now, to move on to something more interesting," continued the Senior Director, fiddling with a sheaf of what appeared to be photographs. "Perhaps you remember Cornelius Sigan?"

"Yes," said Arthur shortly, and Gaius mumbled some form of assent. Morgana said nothing, but she nodded. Only Merlin was clueless, but he did his best to look curious about whatever Uther was about to tell them.

"His collection of medieval and Renaissance tapestries and textiles has grown," Uther said, still hunting among the photographs. "It is exceptional. One of the best. He has some masterpieces, isn't that so, Gaius? You've known him for as long as I have."

"He has a good eye," Gaius murmured with what sounded, to Merlin, like reluctance. "And he has acquired some fine pieces, certainly. What does this have to do with us?"

"I've been trying for years to get him to promise at least part of his collection to the Institute," Uther said bluntly. "Lavish dinners. Invitations to special events. We must have invited him for tea countless times, Elaine and I."

Elaine was Morgana and Mordred's mother, Arthur's stepmother. Merlin had seen photographs of her…a charming, doe-eyed blonde who looked considerably younger than her years. He knew that Arthur was fond of her, although both he and Morgana agreed that she was a bit of an intellectual lightweight, and very much a social butterfly. ("How she managed to produce offspring as sharply intelligent as Mordred and, uh, Morgana, I have not an inkling," Arthur had once said to Merlin in private.) It was apparent that Morgana had gotten her keen intellect and her dark-haired, pale-skinned good looks from her deceased father, Gorlois, and Merlin guessed that Mordred's brains might have come from Uther's side of the family.

"There's one tapestry in particular that's especially fine," Uther went on. "It hasn't been published, at least not in the past fifty years, so few people know about it. I'll email you some photographs. Sigan's been hinting that he might gift it to us within the next year. I mention this because of your impending, uh, visit, Arthur."

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"He said he'd be pleased to show it to you, and hear what you have to say about it. As you'll be in town, that is. He said that as you're more or less the Acting Director in New York, you might give him your opinion on how it would fit into our collection."

"Oh," said the Assistant Director, sounding anything _but_ pleased. "Certainly, Father."

"I was thinking of coming to London for a long weekend, whilst Arthur's there," Morgana said suddenly, taking them all by surprise. "It's been quite a while. I could use a mini-vacation. And it's been at least a couple of years since Leon-"

Realizing what she had just said, she nearly clapped her hand over her mouth, and turned visibly red. Uther gave his stepdaughter a sharp look, and Merlin attempted to draw attention away from her by dropping his clipboard with a loud clatter. Uther grimaced, and turned his disapproving glare in Merlin's direction.

"That's alright then," Arthur said loudly, as Morgana nudged him in the ribs. "I'd be glad if you stopped in whilst I'm in London. Anyway, Father, if Sigan wants to see me to discuss the tapestry, I can certainly oblige him."

"Good," Uther boomed, turning back to his son and smiling again. "I think you'll be impressed by the piece. Now, I have an appointment in half an hour, so if you'll excuse me, I'll sign off now. I'll have the photos emailed to you later today. Arthur, my regards to the rest of the staff."

As Uther's image blinked off, everybody breathed a very audible sigh of relief. Morgana, whose face was still flushed, put her hands to her cheeks but said nothing. Merlin gave her a sympathetic smile, and watched as she took a deep breath and tried to compose herself.

"Well that's that," Arthur said briskly, standing up. He had been paying strict attention to Uther's various statements, and had not once looked in the junior conservator's direction. Now, however, his glance strayed to Merlin's throat, where his shirt was open at the collar, and Morgana smirked a little, whereas Gaius pretended not to notice.

"Why did Uther want me to sit in on this?" Merlin asked, clearly at a loss; Uther had not addressed a single comment to him. "Wouldn't it have made more sense to have Gwen? She's the textile conservator."

Arthur cleared his throat. "I suppose it's because you'll be, um, coming to London with me," he replied. "Perhaps Father wants you to have a look at the tapestry…seeing as you'll be there."

(At first, both Arthur and Merlin had avoided mentioning to the rest of the staff that Merlin would be accompanying the Assistant Director during his brief summer visit to London. It had soon become clear, however, that everybody on staff knew all about it. Morgana was the one person who had been informed from the beginning but she swore she hadn't told a soul, which suggested that the Institute's gossip mill must have been working overtime.)

"I'm completely in the dark about this Sigan fellow," Merlin said in a near whisper as he, Arthur, and Gaius headed for the door. "But I can tell you don't like him much. What's the reason?"

"Later, Merlin," Arthur replied, very quietly, as they stepped into the hallway. Then he raised his voice. "Well, Gaius, that's a relief about the entrance fee. I'm pleased that Father gave in on that matter. And I'm happy he wants you to co-author the next guidebook."

"It's always nice to be given extra work," Gaius replied drily. "Morgana and I should be able to handle it. I'm surprised, though, that Uther didn't want someone with a fresh, new take on the Institute to write the text. Don't you think Merlin would do a nice job?"

"God, no," said Arthur, and although he did not roll his eyes, he might as well have, from the tone of his voice.

Merlin shot him a look, and Arthur gave an evil grin.

"He hasn't been here long enough," he added, ignoring Merlin's narrowed eyes. "You and Morgana know this collection backwards and forwards, inside and out."

"Well," said Gaius amiably, shrugging off his jacket. "After that little conference I think we all deserve a drink after hours. Perhaps we could repair to The Griffin after five? I have the feeling Morgana will be happy to join us, don't you?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Who's Who**

Perhaps because it was a Friday evening, The Griffin was crowded when the group from the Pendragon Institute made its way into the handsome interior, shortly after five thirty. As the upscale pub was a popular watering hole with the neighborhood's museum personnel, it was not uncommon to find curators, technicians, or shop employees from institutions like the Metropolitan Museum or the Guggenheim seated at the polished wooden bar or tucked into the booths that lined the walls. The Institute staffers settled themselves at a group of free-standing tables and ordered their drinks. Several people recognized them, and waved. Two or three of the female patrons smiled and raised their glasses in Arthur's direction.

This sort of thing happened on a regular basis, in places like The Griffin and elsewhere. In addition to being burdened with his reputation as a sex god among museum directors – at least this _had_ been his reputation before the appearance of Merlin Emrys - Arthur Pendragon was generally well liked and admired, and was viewed as the consummate professional. He was never late for an appointment. He ran his museum like a ship of the line from the old British navy. He was friendly and accessible to his employees, but remained remote enough that none of them would have dared to take advantage of him in any way (except Morgana). If he occasionally bullied his staff it was in a good-natured way, and nobody saw fit to object to it (except Merlin). He was courteous to the outside world, clever, a good scholar, respected by his peers. Furthermore, his good looks were legendary, and his sexual conquests among museum professionals of other institutions (_never_ of his own, until Merlin) had been numerous, both female and male, and not one of them could complain that he had treated them badly. When word spread around the museum community that he had taken up with one of his young employees, there had been shock and a lot of gossip. Fortunately this had died down; people had accepted his attachment to his junior conservator as fact, and moved on to some other local scandal or other.

The Assistant Director had managed to keep his relationship a secret from the world outside the Pendragon Institute for less than three months, until the so-called "Valiant Incident" at the Metropolitan Museum. After that, everything had come out in the open, and Arthur had done nothing to deny it. At work he maintained his professional stance towards Merlin, treating him much as he did the rest of the staff. They did not touch, or make any direct references to their connection whilst on the grounds of the Institute. This bolstered Arthur's standing as a responsible head of staff, and also made it easier for Uther to ignore a situation that could hardly have made him happy.

Gwen and Lance had no scruples at all about behaving in an affectionate manner in front of their colleagues, although they kept this to a minimum at work. In places like The Griffin they were quite happy to sit close together in one of the booths or at a table, playing occasional footsie or cheerfully linking hands. On this particular evening, Lance had his arm around Gwen's waist, and Will was scowling at them and begging them not to start snogging in public. Gaius, Leon, and the Assistant Director were leaning against the bar, arguing about the most recent World Cup match, whilst Morgana and Merlin watched them from separate small tables across the room.

"As Will's hosted a bachelor party for Lance," Morgana said to Gwen in a loud stage whisper, "I think it's only fair that I host your bridal shower."

"Oh, lovely!" cried Gwen ecstatically. "And no, Lance, we wouldn't dream of hiring male strippers."

Lance snorted derisively.

"How was your little talk with Uther?" Gwen asked Morgana solicitously, and the senior curator groaned.

"Impossible man!" she rapped out in a low voice. "But it wasn't as bad as it could have been."

"Does he know we're getting married?" interrupted Lance. "I'm hoping he'll give us a raise as a wedding present."

"Ha ha," Gwen intoned. "Keep dreaming."

"Or a bonus at the very least."

"He mentioned a possible gift to the Institute, from Cornelius Sigan." Morgana went on. "That was something of a surprise."

"Oh," said Gwen, surprised. "He must mean one of his tapestries. I can't believe it! He's such an odd duck. Merlin! Can you imagine?"

"I don't know anything about the man," Merlin said, almost impatiently, and minutes later, when Arthur returned to their table and sat down facing him, Merlin turned a level stare in his direction and murmured, "_Now_ are you going to tell me about this Sigan fellow? Is he one of your father's mates?"

"Not exactly," replied Arthur, grimacing. "Not one of his mates, no, but they know each other. Sigan's quite a bit younger. He founded Raven Air - you know, the airline - about ten years ago, and it's made him very rich."

"Raven Air...oh, of course. The one with the huge blackbird stenciled on its airplanes."

"He's got a gloomy Victorian pile of a mansion and some flashy trophy wife who used to be a lingerie model."

"And he collects art? He owns, erm, tapestries?"

"He has a wide-ranging collection, actually," Arthur mused. "Everything from African sculpture and Cambodian stone buddhas to medieval French and Flemish tapestries. Some truly excellent, most of them well-published."

"Why is it you don't like him?"

"Going in for mind-reading now, are you?" Arthur asked drily.

"I can tell you don't like him...you're not always difficult to read," said Merlin, stubbornly, and Arthur sighed.

"I can't say I know him well, in fact I definitely don't," he murmured, lowering his voice so that the others could not hear. "When I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, Father took me with him to auctions at Sotheby's and Christies, and every now and then we saw Sigan there. He always spoke to us with courtesy, but I didn't like the...the way he looked at me. There was, as the Yanks say, something sketchy about it. Creepy. As though he was a little boy on Christmas eve, and I was the sugarplum in his stocking that he wanted to get his hands on."

"Oh," said Merlin. "Ugh. You mean he fancied you."

"I don't know, exactly," Arthur replied, shrugging. "He never tried to chat me up, never tried to have anything on, but of course I was underage."

"So you're worried about what he might do now?"

"Not _worried_," said Arthur, rather dismissively. "I mean, he's a bit scrawny, like you, so...I could thrash him if I were blindfolded. And it isn't likely that he's still...that is, I don't even know that he wanted..."

"Who wouldn't want you?" Merlin said simply, without thinking, and then blushed to the roots of his hair.

"Hmm, yes, you _have_ got a point there," Arthur answered loftily, but Merlin could see that he had blushed also.

"Prat," he mumbled, and the Assistant Director gave him a look. It would probably be a very warm night.

Their table shook as Morgana dropped her heavy handbag on top of it, and then Morgana herself dropped into a chair next to Arthur.

"Whatever are you two talking about?" she asked, and then, without preamble, "you're both as red as beets."

"If they gave awards for an absence of tact," the Assistant Director said stonily, "you would win every year, hands down. As it happens, I was telling Merlin about Cornelius Sigan."

"I knew nothing whatsoever about him," Merlin added equitably.

"Odd fellow," Morgana said, raising one eyebrow. "I met his wife once, at a dinner. Gorgeous creature, but scarcely a brain in her head. So, have you scheduled your flights yet?"

"No," Arthur replied, staring into his Guinness. "We'll be spending a few days in…in Ealdor, before our week in London. Just don't say anything about that to Father, Morgana, or I will be obligated to slice and dice your credit cards into little bits and flush them down the toilet."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A little less than two hours later, Arthur was pacing the length of his study, a street map of the London area in one hand and a larger, wider-ranging road map in the other. Merlin had peered into the study earlier, and seeing the grim look on his Assistant Director's face, had wisely retreated.

Arthur finally deposited both maps on his desk, and pulled a heavy scrapbook that had once belonged to Uther out of his bookshelf. He carried it to the living room, where he placed it on the coffee table with a thump, waking Merlin, who had drowsed off on the sofa.

"I've something to show you, Sleeping Beauty," he announced. "So get up and pay attention."

He began flipping through the scrapbook, sneezing loudly as dust rose from the pages. Merlin chuckled and handed him a handkerchief.

"Here you are, Goldilocks," he murmured. "Now, what is it you're showing me?"

"_Don't_ call me Goldilocks," snapped Arthur. "Look…here's a photo of Cornelius Sigan. Of course you could find something more up-to-date online."

Merlin restrained himself from asking Arthur whether he would prefer to be called one of The Three Bears, and turned his eyes to the newspaper article pasted to the page. It was topped by a slightly yellowing photograph of a somewhat younger Uther, standing between a smiling, thin, and hollow-eyed man, and a third gentleman, distinguished and dark haired with wire-framed eyeglasses.

The caption beneath the image read: "British collectors Uther Pendragon and Cornelius Sigan lend masterpieces to the Metropolitan Museum in New York."

"That's the former director of the Met," said Arthur, pointing to the dark haired, bespectacled figure. "And there's Sigan," he added, his finger below the grainy image of the hollow-eyed collector. Sigan was obviously younger than either Uther or the Metropolitan's former director; he was gaunt-faced, with a blondish Van Dyke beard and moustache, and a broad grin that could be read as either open and friendly or sinister.

"Really?" said Merlin, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "Does he always look totally gormless?"

"He's not gormless, you twit," grumbled Arthur, shutting Uther's scrapbook and pushing his fair hair back from his brow with an exasperated look. "He's a sly fox. Art dealers either love him or hate him. Last year he bought a rare sixteenth-century tapestry of heroes from the Trojan War, and let the Boston Museum borrow it. Perhaps you saw a photo of it in their bulletin."

Merlin recalled the photograph of the tapestry quite clearly. A magnificent piece, depicting the mythical warriors Achilles, Hector, Paris, and Agamemnon (all clad in late medieval armor) against a background of flowering plants. He smiled at the memory and saw Arthur's eyes go to the unbuttoned collar of his shirt for the second or third time that day.

"Stop yawning, _Mer_lin," commanded Arthur as his young conservator stood up and stretched. "And honestly…you needn't look at me as though I was about to tear your clothes off and ravish you."

"Well, aren't you?" Merlin replied matter-of-factly as he picked up the scrapbook and flipped through the pages.

"No," said Arthur firmly. "Or don't you believe me?"

"No," Merlin answered, putting the scrapbook down. "You can say what you please, but you know you're going to do it anyway."

Arthur folded his arms and glared.

"I could ravish _you_, if you'd prefer," Merlin went on helpfully, but three seconds later Arthur had him against the wall and was attacking his neck, one hand in Merlin's unruly dark hair, the other pulling his shirt open so that buttons dropped to the floor, rolling in all directions.

"Hey," Merlin protested feebly. "That's my best shirt!"

"_Mer_lin," Arthur said in his most dangerous voice.

"What did I tell you," Merlin began philosophically, before Arthur effectively shut him up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Much Ado About Cornelius Sigan**

"I wouldn't worry too much about that sculpture, Merlin," Gaius said reassuringly. "It's been around for nearly seven hundred years; I think it's actually much tougher than we are."

"Mmmm," replied the junior conservator, staring hard at the surface of the fourteenth-century John the Baptist, which was marred with numerous tiny holes, evidence of old insect activity. "I suppose you're right. You know," he added with a mischievous grin, "we could tell the public that the model for the statue had a bad case of the pox."

"That," muttered Gaius at his driest, "isn't even funny. But you've stabilized the piece quite nicely. You're living up to your growing reputation as Merlin of the Magic Fingers."

"For pity's sake," Merlin said with a pained expression. "That sounds like a character from The Lord of the Rings. Or worse, a porn star. As for my reputation, I suppose any decent, trained conservator could do what I do."

"No, my boy," Gaius sighed testily. "That's not the case and you know it. I don't want you to become conceited, but as I've said before, your talent and your eye are exceptional, and your handling of materials is instinctive and spot on. Not that you haven't made the occasional error in judgment, you understand, but nothing that impacted badly on the art. You're barely out of school and you're far better than most senior conservators who've been employed for decades. I should know, I've been at this sort of work forever."

"Thanks," murmured the junior conservator, ignoring the crankiness in Gaius' voice. If the Head of Conservation was grumpy the morning after a night of drinking at The Griffin, everybody felt he was entitled to a great deal of slack. He was, after all, one of the oldest members of the Institute's "Motley Crew of Expat Brits" (as Morgana had dubbed the museum's staff, long ago), and, for Merlin, was the closest thing to a father figure that he could think of.

"I believe we've done enough to Johnny for the present," Gaius continued. "You can go back to the Paper Conservation studio with a clear conscience, Merlin. Will's almost finished with that bronze thingy he's been cleaning, and he's more than capable of dealing with the other sculpture that's been giving us trouble."

He gestured in the direction of a colorfully painted wooden figure of a bearded man, dressed like a noble, that stood in the corner of the Objects Conservation studio. Nobody could figure out who it was supposed to be. (Gaius thought it might be one of the Three Wise Men, and Will guessed that it was meant to represent King Herod.) Some of the red pigment on the figure's hose had cracked and bubbled on the surface, giving it the appearance of peculiar, unattractive growths. Merlin had dubbed the statue Lord Moldywart.

"Are you coming upstairs for ten o'clock break?" he asked Gaius, and bit his lip when he saw the senior conservator's eyes go to the red scarf he had slung around his neck that morning.

"Hmmmm," said Gaius, his eyebrows working overtime. "Yes. I think I could do with a spot of caffeine. And perhaps you could as well, for a different reason."

That was as close as Gaius had ever come to referring to Merlin's personal life. Merlin felt his cheeks grow hot, and he fiddled unconsciously with his neck scarf. He had had no choice but to wear it; Arthur's enthusiasm of the previous night had left more than one mark on the skin of his throat.

"Shall we go?" asked Gaius, the crossness in his voice beginning to fade. "Everybody will want to talk about Uther's latest announcement. Regarding Cornelius Sigan's possible gift, that is."

"Am I the only person in this solar system who'd never heard of the man before Monday?" Merlin said, cross in his turn. "It's beginning to be embarrassing."

There was a thud and a crunching noise outside the door, and both men turned their heads in surprise.

"Bloody hell!" came Will's voice from the corridor. "Fucking ow! Who left these cardboard boxes lying about the hallway?"

Gaius turned a faintly accusing glance in Merlin's direction.

Merlin cleared his throat. "Sorry, Will," he called, heading for the door. "I forgot...my fault. Are you okay?"

"Oh...Merlin." Will's voice held a hint of resignation. "I should have known, mate."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Have you heard about the manuscript that's coming up for auction at Sotheby's?" Lance asked, addressing the room in general. It was just past ten, and nearly all of the regulars, but for the Assistant Director, had assembled in the staff lounge for coffee or tea. Will was rummaging in a biscuit tin. Leon was manfully dealing with the ancient, recalcitrant coffee maker, and Morgana was doing battle with a crumpet that had gotten stuck in the toaster.

"I sent an email to Uther about it," Gaius replied, looking at his cup of black coffee as though it were the Elixir of Life. "It's a fine specimen. Fifteenth century. Beautiful illuminations of lords and ladies, playing the lute and viol and serenading each other with mournful courtly love ditties."

"I suppose we still have money in the Purchase Fund for this year?" asked Gwen, and Morgana nodded.

"Enough to try and bid on it at auction, anyway," the senior curator remarked, triumphantly brandishing the liberated crumpet. "I went to examine it last week, and the Sotheby's staff was all over me. One of you should have a look and tell me what you think."

"Will, why don't you do it this time?" said the Assistant Director as he appeared in the doorway. "You haven't been since last year. I'd go, but I don't think I have time this week."

Will shrugged his shoulders agreeably. "I'll do it, I'd like to. There won't be much on my schedule this week, apart from working on Lord Moldywart. But are you sure Merlin shouldn't go?"

"Not Merlin, not this time," Arthur replied abruptly. "He had his turn recently; you do it, Will."

"Right," said Will, cheerfully. "But I'm not going incognito."

Everybody smiled, because that had been Merlin's method, when he had first come to the Institute as a highly promising fledgling conservator, fresh out of Cambridge and conservation courses at the Courtauld Institute. Arthur remembered the days - not that long ago - when Merlin, age twenty-four, could don a scruffy rock-band tee shirt and a pair of faded jeans with holes in the knees, slap a fake (yet real-looking) tattoo on one arm and a black leather wristlet on the other, and pass as a high school student visiting the auction house to write a report on some painting or other. This was no longer possible; he had become too well known in the museum community. Now when he went to an auction house to examine a work of art, he wore a suit and tie and was greeted by name by members of staff when he arrived.

(Arthur had never admitted as much, but the sight of Merlin in the guise of a teenage student, less than a year earlier, had nearly driven him crazy. Not that he had ever been attracted to jail bait - he hadn't - but his junior conservator had looked so appetising in that punkish - or was it gothish? - getup that Arthur had been forced to turn his eyes away.)

"I can give you my fake tattoos," Merlin said from one end of the sofa, and Will hooted with laughter before giving Arthur a grateful look. It was remarkable, really, how his attitude toward the Assistant Director had changed since the "Valiant Incident" at the Metropolitan, when Arthur had neatly decked the Met conservator, Valiant, for striking and injuring Merlin.

Of course Will was Merlin's childhood friend, and if he had been suspicious of Arthur Pendragon's relations with the Institute's newest conservator, that single event (which had made headlines in the press and gotten the Metropolitan Museum some unwanted publicity) had changed his view of Arthur from playboy predator to hero in shining armor.

"I'd love to see it, myself," Gwen murmured above the rim of her coffee mug. "The manuscript, that is. Arthur, did Uther really say that Cornelius Sigan was _giving_ us one of his tapestries? That's incredibly exciting. And Uther must be pleased, because it means we don't have to spend _money_."

"He said that Sigan was _thinking_ about it," Arthur replied. "I have to go and see him during my London visit."

"Oh," said Gwen, pulling her thick mass of curly brown hair back from her face and frowning. "Doesn't he live in-"

"Kensington," Arthur muttered, examining his piece of toast with a disgruntled air. "And he keeps his collection in his home, not in storage."

"So you'll have to go to his home to meet with him?"

"So it seems," said Arthur with distaste.

"Perhaps he'll invite you to dinner with his trophy wife," drawled Morgana, sitting down on the sofa next to Leon. "She can talk the hind legs off a wretched donkey. You'd better brush up on your knowledge of fashion magazines and hot movie stars."

"_No_," said Arthur, scowling.

"Oh, the things we do for our careers," Morgana continued relentlessly. "Oh the sacrifices we make. All for the greater glory of the Pendragon Institute."

"Don't despair," Gwen said in what was meant to be a consoling manner. "Mr Sigan's a businessman. Perhaps he isn't at all like his wife, and can converse on subjects other than fashion mags and hot...what was it? Hot movie stars."

"Let's hope so," growled Arthur, reaching for his mug of coffee and taking Gaius' instead.

"He really is the oddest duck," Gwen added, looking mystified. "I can't think why he collects medieval tapestries. I should guess Abstract Expressionism would be more to his taste."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Does _everybody_ think Sigan's an odd duck?" asked Merlin, curious.

"Everybody knows he's _eccentric_," Arthur replied, frowning just a little.

"Many collectors are eccentric," Merlin went on. "A lot of them are regular pack rats. It's the nesting instinct gone wild."

"I suppose," said Arthur, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. "And I'd rather not talk about him just now, if you don't mind."

"Sorry," Merlin said, trying to sound apologetic. "I wouldn't have asked, but I can tell you're worried about-"

"_Mer_lin," sighed Arthur, drawing his eyebrows together. "I am _not _worried. About anything. So-"

"Right," said Merlin, unconvinced. "Okay. I understand."

"Obviously you don't," murmured Arthur, caught between amusement and exasperation. He tightened his grasp on Merlin's hips to hold him steady.

"I _do_," insisted Merlin. "And don't call me an idiot..._oh_."

"I wasn't about to," Arthur said silkily. "Idiot," he added a moment later, but gently, as he saw Merlin's eyelids flutter and felt those slim-fingered hands clutch at his shoulder blades.

"You..._oh, Arthur_," Merlin said faintly, arching upwards. "You-"

"Shut up," replied Arthur smugly, lowering his face to Merlin's.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: You're a Riddle, Merlin**

Arthur stood in the middle of his kitchen and stared at the boxes and bundles of unfamiliar products on the shelves, and on the top of the butcher-block table.

There was no question that sharing a flat with Merlin had made for a number of noticeable changes in his lifestyle. Starting with eating habits, and the way in which he kept his kitchen stocked. A meat and potatoes sort of man from his youth, Arthur now found himself face to face with such novelties as vegetarian stew, meat-free "sausages," soy "burgers," and cartons of lactose-free milk whenever he opened his refrigerator.

Arthur could picture Uther, a hearty eater who favored chops, well-cured ham, and ordered fork-tender Kobe beef at high-end restaurants on a regular basis, rolling his eyes at Merlin's dietary habits.

As far as Arthur was concerned, Merlin could fill his refrigerator with tofu, beans, and bottles of Romulan ale. As long as he remained a part of Arthur Pendragon's life.

Not that he would ever say as much, out loud. Certainly not to Merlin.

He made a mental note to let Uther know about Merlin's food preferences before their visit to London. Then he scratched that, and made another mental note to let Uther's _household staff_ know about them.

Arthur wondered whether he should speak to his junior conservator about their accommodations in Ealdor. Naturally Merlin's mother, Hunith, had offered to let them stay in her little home, but from what Arthur understood, the home was very little indeed. Merlin had told him that the guest bedroom was about the size of one of the walk-in closets in Arthur's flat. Furthermore, when Arthur had broached the subject of food, and said that he didn't want to impose on Hunith, or make her feel obliged to prepare meals for them, Merlin had raised his eyes to the ceiling, guffawed, and said that he didn't think his mother's cooking was, well, quite up to Pendragon standards.

"As much as I love my mum, people used to joke that I left home because of her cooking," he had said between gusts of laughter.

Anyway, Merlin had told him that the guest bedroom was _very_ tiny, and across the landing from his, _and_ that the floor of the landing creaked.

London was a different story. They would be staying with Uther, for although the family home in Belgravia was undergoing renovations, the senior Pendragon had purchased a house in Earls Terrace, Kensington, with the intention of selling it later on. He was using it as temporary digs, and as such it was quite satisfactory, being both spacious and in a prestigious part of town. Arthur had no doubts whatsoever about where his father would put Merlin during their brief sojourn in London. Uther would give Merlin the bedroom that was the farthest away from Arthur's. Preferably on another floor. If this were the Middle Ages, he would probably station armed guards in front of Arthur's door to prevent Merlin from entering. As it was, Arthur could _almost_ imagine his father setting up an elaborate electronic alarm system that would trip if he or Merlin went within ten feet of each other at bedtime.

If it hadn't been for the stellar quality of Merlin's conservation work, and the glowing reputation that was building up around him in the international museum community, Arthur was almost certain that Uther would have tried to find an excuse to sack him. He grudgingly had accepted Merlin's presence in Arthur's private life - outwardly, anyway - but it was no secret that he had always harbored certain marital ambitions for his offspring. Both Arthur and Morgana occasionally joked about what they saw as his father's plans to marry him off to the daughter of some wealthy member of the peerage at the very least.

"Why would a peer's daughter want to marry me anyway?" he had asked Merlin one evening.

"Have you looked in the mirror recently?" Merlin had retorted. "Of course it's not your fault you're so pretty."

"I. Am. _Not. _Pretty." Arthur growled. "And don't say that again, you."

"Beautiful, then," his impossible conservator had replied. His eyes had been on Arthur's classically sculpted face, lingering on that full, pink lower lip. Now his gaze slid over the broad shoulders and chest, continuing down over lightly bronzed skin and well toned muscle.

"Find a more masculine adjective please," Arthur ordered. He felt the rise and fall of Merlin's chest under his hand, as those blue eyes returned to his face.

"Are you trying to count my ribs?" Merlin had asked conversationally. "I can assure you I'm not missing any."

"What you're missing is body mass," said Arthur. "Here, here, and here. In fact, all over. You really do need to consume more carbohydrates. However," he had added, his fingers brushing over skin that was silk to the touch, "I'm not exactly complaining."

That conversation had taken place a week ago. Merlin was still thin as a rail, and Arthur was still apprehensive about what Uther would do when they were both under his roof.

On the plus side of things, Arthur's highly precocious and much younger half-brother, Mordred, was fascinated with Merlin (and Merlin's profession) and had already voiced his support of him to their father, in no uncertain terms. Arthur didn't know exactly what Mordred had said, but he was fairly certain the boy's speech had been delivered with the uncanny stare and in the precise, chilly voice that were typical of the youngest Pendragon.

Of course Morgana was on their side as well, but if Uther became aware of just how close she had become to the Pendragon Institute's Head of Security, she would be as much in the doghouse as Arthur was.

"If Uther asks you, my most recent date was with one of the richest lawyers for the Walt Disney Company," Morgana had said to him only yesterday at work. "If I bring Leon to London with me, God knows how I'm going to hide him."

Arthur had shrugged. "Why bother? If the two of you are in London together, he'll find out eventually. Even if you _are_ going to stay in a hotel."

"Why Uther has to be so controlling - and so snobbish - about who his son and stepdaughter date is beyond understanding," she had continued, her voice rising. "That is, who's going to care all that much, in this day and age, if I'm seeing somebody who works as a museum guard of sorts. Or whether you're in love with-"

"Morgana!" Arthur had hissed at her, because they were, after all, in his office. Fortunately, the door was closed and it was unlikely that anybody had overheard their exchange.

Why did lo...why did relationships have to make life so complicated?

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"Perhaps Morgana's right and we should buy the tickets now," Merlin called from the study at the other end of the flat. "And reserve a car. We'll be doing a lot of driving."

"Hang on," Arthur shouted back. "What's this 'we'?" You haven't a license."

"Alright," Merlin said in a mildly exasperated voice. "_You'll _be doing a lot of driving."

"It would be nice if you could get a license this summer," Arthur mused loudly. "On second thoughts..." Images of truly awful road crashes and pile-ups, all caused by Merlin, had suddenly popped into his head. It was the sort of thought that other Institute staffers probably would have had, knowing the difference between the brilliantly focused Merlin of the Conservation studios and the absent-minded, awkward Merlin of everyplace else.

Although Merlin, at the Institute, was rather reserved and very polite, every person on staff had come to realize that there was a touch of impish mischief, and a rather dark sense of humor, hidden beneath that quiet surface. He was rarely loud or boisterous (like Will, for example), and he almost never sat about, talking sports and drinking beer with "the boys," as Lance and Leon often did. He was consistently helpful, always upbeat and positive, and seemed to love his work. The rest of the staff had gotten accustomed to the odd contrast of his remarkable precision and perfectionism within the Conservation Department and his equally remarkable clumsiness outside of it. They were quite used to it now, just as they had gotten used to his trace of Northern Irish accent. Arthur appreciated the fact that Merlin never challenged his authority at work, although he felt entirely free to _disagree_ with the Assistant Director at a moment's notice.

In Arthur's flat, now _their_ flat (Merlin vehemently insisted on paying for part of their expenses, and Arthur, amused, let him), they were still in the stage of figuring out who was responsible for what. Merlin carried his weight when it came to keeping things in order, listened to Arthur rant about Morgana or Uther or something to do with work, and kept Arthur entertained with his own chatter, but it was plain as day that the word "subservient" was not part of Merlin's vocabulary.

Nor was the word "submissive," although there were times (mostly related to what they did in bed) when Merlin allowed himself to be just a touch submissive. It was actually rather delicious, Arthur thought, to feel his usually insubordinate conservator become yielding, languid, and compliant in his arms. But this was not always the case, and Arthur believed that he was being quite democratic in occasionally letting Merlin have the upper hand (and dominant role) when they had sex. Once out of bed, of course, he always rapidly reverted to his _Merlinish_ self, which was one of the things Arthur lo…found so intriguing about him.

"Forget about the license," he called as he started down the hall to the study. "I don't mind driving, really."

In the study, its walls panelled with dark wood and lined with bookshelves, he found Merlin paging through a scholarly journal featuring an article on techniques for dealing with gold leaf in medieval manuscripts. He was leaning against a chair, long legs encased in skinny black jeans, a close-fitting, dark grey tee shirt complementing his delicate pallor. Merlin's horn-rimmed glasses, used for reading or close-up work, were perched on his slender nose, and his hair was standing on end where he had raked his fingers through it. As usual, Arthur's senses leapt at the very sight of him. After a moment, Merlin removed his glasses, put them on one of the bookshelves, and rubbed his eyes like a sleepy child.

"I've been having trouble with burnished gold lately," he confessed, chewing on his lower lip. "But there's good information here."

He put the journal back into the bookshelf, knocking his glasses off the edge in the process. Arthur caught them.

"I've said it before," Arthur murmured. "And I'll say it again. You're a riddle, Merlin. I'm amazed that every breakable object in this flat is still intact. Did Will go to the auction house to look at that manuscript Gaius wants us to buy?"

"Yeah," said Merlin. "He thinks it's excellent. Gwen's still nattering on about Sigan's tapestries."

"She would, she's the textile conservator," Arthur replied. "Now, no more talk about Sigan. I don't suppose Will went incognito, did he?"

"Of course not," Merlin answered. "He doesn't want to dress like a student. And he hates tight fitting jeans. He said, and I quote, 'I can't wear those things, they squash my dangly bits.' But he spent nearly an hour looking at the manuscript."

"Right," said the Assistant Director. "He'll give us a report tomorrow, then. Are you ready to go out to dinner? If you're going dressed like that, I suppose the local diner or pizza place is in order. I don't think the Four Seasons or Le Cirque would even let you in the door."

"Cool," replied Merlin. "Let's go. Erm...do I still need to wear the neckscarf?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Gaius Has a Visitor**

The third week in April was busier than usual for Pendragon Institute staff. The Assistant Director conferred frequently with Morgana, who would be running things during most of his absence in June, and with old Geoffrey Monmouth, who would be running things during _Morgana's_ four-day weekend in London. Merlin also conferred with Gaius about which conservation projects could be handed over to Will during _his_ own absence. There was no sense in trying to hide the fact that the two would be traveling together, and in fact the only staff members at the Institute who were ignorant of Arthur's relationship with his junior conservator were the high school girls who worked as volunteers in the library, or helped out in the gift shop. They still sighed with heartfelt longing whenever the handsome Assistant Director strode past them in the hallways (Morgana teased him about this, mercilessly). Wealthy donors to the museum, some of whom knew nothing about the people who worked there, also made eyes in his direction. It was a running joke amongst the senior staff that if they could only auction off _a shag or two _from the Assistant Director at the Annual Benefit Party, they could make a bloody fortune for the museum, with money left over for year-end bonuses.

"Why stop at one or two?" Morgana asked. "A week's worth, and we could all get raises as well as bonuses."

Arthur overheard this at the end of a staff meeting and scowled.

"What makes everybody think I'm that good?" he muttered.

"I don't know. But just imagine," said Morgana in a rather loud voice, "if Mrs Alined bid the highest and won."

Mrs Alined was generous with her money, being the wife of a wealthy executive in the auto industry who had once (rumor had it) been an arms dealer. Alined was quite indulgent with his spouse, when he wasn't traveling the globe, more or less promoting war wherever he went. The missus was voluptuous and handsome, but also exceedingly bossy ("Worse than you," Arthur said to his stepsister), and generally unpleasant. As such, the Institute's employees had voted her the least popular of all of their financial donors.

"Good lord," Arthur groaned under his breath. "Mrs Alined? I really don't think I could do it. Uh, perform, I mean."

He kept his eyes on his meeting notes rather than look at Merlin, with whom he had performed beautifully the night before.

"As this week has been exceptionally busy," Morgana stated dryly to the room at large, "I'm not surprised that we've covered so much ground in today's staff meeting. However, I had no idea we were going to move on to the question of whether or not we should be pimping our Assistant Director, even if it would do a great deal to replenish the Purchase Fund."

There was a burst of laughter from the senior staff that went on for several minutes. Arthur stared daggers in Morgana's direction, but refrained from suggesting that they do the same with the senior curator.

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Although some wealthy donors paid little attention to the causes or institutions to which they gave money every year (and received tax breaks as a result), there were others who were genuinely interested in the organizations to which they supplied funds. These people would certainly have read the articles in various magazines and newspapers about the "Valiant Incident" at the Metropolitan Museum, Valiant's attack on Merlin, and the now famous fistfight between the Insitute's Assistant Director and the Met's dodgy criminal-turned-conservator. Few of the reputable newspapers had said anything in particular about a friendship (of any kind) between Arthur and Merlin, although the tabloids - naturally - had had a field day with romance rumors. In addition, the cover story _Vanity Fair_ had featured on the history of the Institute made an indirect reference to the reason why Uther Pendragon's son had pasted Valiant so efficiently on the jaw.

This is, it had mentioned how Arthur, having knocked Valiant halfway across the room, had promptly climbed into an ambulance to accompany his unconscious young conservator to the hospital. And how he had looked after him for several days after the hospital discharged him.

Morgana kept a copy of this issue of _Vanity Fair_ on the desk in her office, as the glossy cover photograph of the magazine showed herself, Arthur, Geoffrey, Lance, and the four members of the Conservation Department, standing on the front steps of the Institute. At least once a week, Arthur asked her, in long-suffering tones, to remove it.

"Whatever for?" was Morgana's usual reply. "The photographs are lovely." Her long fingers, tipped with shell-pink or brilliant crimson polish, would run across the pages of the article, pointing out the full-page image of Arthur and herself, standing in front of the museum's Sicilian fresco, and smaller photos of Gwen at work, Lance, Gaius and Will standing by a suit of armor, and Merlin, all angles, cheekbones, and boyish grin, inspecting Lord Moldywart's mottled surface.

Surprisingly, Uther had said very little on the subject of what he must have considered negative publicity, even though attendance at the Insitute had gone up after the _Vanity Fair_ issue appeared on the newstands. The public had been curious, and when Arthur stepped out of his office and into any of the display galleries between ten and five, museum hours, he often found himself the object of more stares than the works of art.

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On the Friday of that third week in April, Gaius received a call from the information desk, informing him that he had a visitor.

Gaius was not downstairs in the Conservation studios, but in his office, going over paperwork and complaining to Merlin - whose tiny office was behind his - about the pain and indignity of his arthritis. When his guest appeared in his doorway, escorted there by one of the library volunteers, he got to his feet, wincing, and went to shake his hand. Through the half open door between the offices, Merlin could see the visitor: a man, rather tall and erect, grey haired with a narrow, aristocratic-looking face, hooded eyes, and a thin-lipped smile.

"Aredian," said Gaius in a surprised and wary voice. "It's been years. May I offer my congratulations on your liberated state."

Gaius spoke wryly, but Merlin understood his words, and recognized the name. Aredian was a veteran objects conservator, one of the best-known in his field, who had worked for years at the British Museum and then for the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. He had recently retired, and now worked on a freelance basis, traveling from place to place as he received commissions from various institutions and collectors. Merlin was aware that both Gaius and Uther were acquainted with the man, and that Gaius respected him as a master of his profession. From the tone of his supervisor's voice, however, it was doubtful that this respect included feelings of friendship.

"Won't you sit down?" Gaius was saying politely, and Merlin backed away from the door so as not to be seen.

"Ive just come from London," Aredian replied, flicking invisible grains of dust from his black shirt. "I had some work there. I saw Uther at a lecture series, and he suggested that I stop in here and see how things were doing in your department."

Merlin's stomach sank like a stone.

"We're doing quite well, thank you," Gaius answered, eyeing his guest with a mixture of curiosity and cautiousness. "I hope Uther doesn't think otherwise. We keep him informed, and he _does_ come over on occasion to inspect things."

"I just had a look at your new acquisition, the Sicilian fresco," Aredian continued. "Superb piece. Very fine. And everything in the galleries looks to be in good condition. But we all know how time and the environment affect things, don't we, Gaius? I'm sure you're keeping your staff busy, especially with the change of season. I imagine your humidification system is up to snuff?"

"Yes it is," Gaius said, clearly trying to keep his temper. "Although for armor and metalwork, as you're well aware, we have to keep humidity levels low. Whereas wood and paper like humidity at fifty percent. But we're fully staffed and work hasn't been a problem. We have a fourth conservator now, you know."

"Ah yes," murmured Aredian. "Of course. The boy, Merlin."

Merlin was becoming rather tired of hearing himself referred to as "the boy" by some of the older conservators in the business.

"I've heard very positive things about him," Aredian continued in that cold voice. "I've not seen his work, but people who have are very complimentary. With that, ah, recent publicity, some thought he was simply Arthur's new toy, but I take it that is not the case?"

"It is definitely not the case," said Gaius stiffly. "I don't believe I've ever met a conservator - new or experienced, young or old - with his gifts and his eye," he added pointedly.

"I'm happy to hear it," Aredian responded smoothly. "It's always good to hear about new talent. So few young people apply themselves to this sort of painstaking work, these days. I've seen his picture; rather a pretty thing, isn't he?"

Having heard himself referred to as a boy and a thing within the space of five minutes, Merlin was not inclined to feel kindly towards their unexpected visitor.

"He does his work and he does it well," Gaius muttered. "I don't see what his appearance has to do with it."

"Nothing at all," replied Aredian in what was probably meant to be a jovial manner. "You're quite right. Now, why not have the boy in here, so that I can meet him?"

"_The boy_ is right next door," Gaius said dryly. "Merlin! If you have a moment..."

Merlin took a deep breath, made an effort to smooth down his hair, and stepped into Gaius' office, raising his eyes to meet Aredian's.

"Aredian, meet Merlin Emrys," Gaius was saying. "Merlin, of course you know of Aredian's work. He's in New York for...just how long are you here, Aredian?"

"Three days only," came the cool reply as Aredian took Merlin's hand and shook it. "A pleasure, Mr Emrys. I've heard a great deal about you."

"Erm...thanks?" said Merlin uncertainly as he took a step backwards and bumped into Gaius' desk.

"You'll be coming to London this June, I understand." It was a statement, not a question.

"Y-yes, for a week or so. Enough time to visit the museums and meet with a few people."

"Pity I shan't be there then; otherwise I could introduce you to a number of our colleagues." Aredian's eyes skimmed Merlin's face. "Now, I wonder if you would be so kind - if you have the time, that is - to show me what you've been working on in the studio."

Merlin sighed inwardly and, after catching Gaius' warning glance, led the way to the stairs, and then down them to the Conservation rooms. In the Paper Conservation studio, he pointed out an illuminated manuscript on which he had been stabilizing flaking pigment. Next door, in the Objects Conservation studio, he described his treatment of the insect-damaged Saint John.

"Impressive," commented Aredian with a smile Merlin could only describe as chilling. "Excellent work."

At least he hadn't called Merlin a boy again-

"And now, my boy, if you wouldn't mind returning me to Gaius," Aredian said blithely. "I'll stop in to see your Assistant Director, and then I'll be on my way."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Well, Merlin," Gaius said soberly an hour later. "You've met the great Aredian...what did you think of him?"

"If you really must know," Merlin said, frowning, "he made me nervous. But I think he made _you _nervous as well, so I'm not alone."

"He's not an easy man to get to know," replied Gaius grimly. "I don't feel I really know him, and I've 'known' him for decades. Rather a cold fish, I'm afraid. Superb conservator, of course. I have the odd feeling Uther's asked him to spy on us, although I can't imagine why. Good job he's leaving town in three days."

"He's not coming back here tomorrow, is he?" Merlin almost shouted in a voice that sounded perilously similar to an anxious child's.

"No, I don't think so," Gaius murmured. "He has an appointment at the Metropolitan Museum tomorrow. But I'll bet dollars to donuts - as the Americans say - that he'll be asking their conservators questions about us."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin retreated to his small office and began, rather haphazardly, to tidy it. In the process, he discovered his own copy of the issue of _Vanity Fair_ with the Institute staff on the cover, and wondered whether it was publicity of this sort that had made Uther ask Aredian to look in on them. Surely the Senior Director couldn't think that the quality of exhibitions and scholarship produced by the Institute had declined as a result of...as a result of...

He wondered vaguely what Aredian had said to Arthur, and how Arthur had taken whatever Aredian had had to say. Of course the Assistant Director would have been polite, perhaps even deferential, to a man of Aredian's years, an old acquaintance of his father's. But the private Arthur probably had not been pleased to know that his father thought he needed checking up on.

It wasn't always easy for Merlin to reconcile all of the different Arthurs in his mind. The Assistant Director, cool and self-assured, just a little autocratic, with an occasional touch of arrogance. Arthur the scholar and administrator, reading through recent publications by respected medievalists or going over notes from Institute staff meetings with an eagle eye. The boyish, laughing, but undeniably competitive Arthur who played football with old university friends in Central Park. The prattish Arthur, who could lose his temper at the drop of a hat. The fair-minded Arthur, who had been a good and supportive friend for years to Gwen, his ex-lover, and who treated Leon, a security guard, as a social equal and friend. The intent, serious, and passionate Arthur who held him in his arms at night.

Merlin's office phone rang and he ran to answer it, nearly tripping over a pile of books he had borrowed from Geoffrey's library that morning.

"Merlin, for God's sake," came Arthur's voice, a little waspish. "Where the bloody hell are those photographs of Lord Moldywart I asked you for yesterday?"

Ah. The prattish Arthur. Aredian's little visit clearly had not improved his mood.

"Morgana has them, Arthur," Merlin said patiently. "I just sent you an email about that. She'll give them to you before five."

Arthur grumbled. Merlin could picture his hands, large, elegantly-shaped and strong, resting on his desk, his fingers tapping the desktop in irritation. The hands that caressed him so tenderly in bed.

Merlin swallowed and fidgeted in his chair. "I'll remind Morgana," he said into the telephone. "She'll bring them over to you. Or if she's too busy, I will."

"You bring them," ordered Arthur abruptly, and Merlin smiled a little at the possessive edge in the Assistant Director's voice.

"Right," he said obediently and rang off, setting the phone down and heading for the senior curator's office to collect the desired photographs.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Distractions and Sex (And Vice Versa)**

And then, sometime during the first few days of May, everything got quiet.

Perhaps it was because of an unusual hot spell. Outdoor temperatures rose to uncomfortable levels. Attendance at all of the city's museums fell slightly. College and university students began cramming for final exams as the end of spring term drew near, and there were noticeably fewer teenage couples making out in the galleries in the late afternoons.

With no major loans or exhibitions coming up, there was little in the way of new activity at the Pendragon Institute. Which was fine for most of the staff, exhausted by April's busy schedule and content to take long coffee breaks, or long lunchtime walks in the park. It was not fine for the Assistant Director, however, and when Morgana told him to chill and do something meaningless or relaxing, he very nearly lost his temper.

The problem was that Arthur really was not good at handling inactivity. He was also not good at following other people's orders - one of the reasons why he and Uther got on best when the Atlantic Ocean was between them. Arthur was a born leader, he had a tendency to take command in any situation, and if he was slowly learning to become less autocratic in practice, that didn't mean he was willing to surrender pride of place to anyone.

It _did_ mean that he genuinely had to struggle not to tell everybody else what to do and how to do it on a regular basis.

"You must learn to listen as well as you fight," Merlin had once said to him after a staff meeting during which everybody had disagreed (loudly) with everybody else.

"Any other pointers?" Arthur had snapped, and that was the end of _that_ conversation.

To add to the problem was the undisputed fact that Arthur was always full of restless energy, and needed to be busy doing _something_. This usually was not an issue during the busiest seasons at the Institute, when he was kept occupied by the duties of an assistant museum director, but during lulls in the activity - such as the one they were experiencing now - he could be found pacing his office or tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk whilst everybody else was leaning back, watching Youtube on their iPhones, and catching a breather. Twice a week he went to the gym, sometimes in the company of Lance, and he did have the occasional game of football in the park, but these diversions were obviously not enough when things at work were slow.

"He needs some form of distraction," Merlin said to Morgana one day after the long lull in their work schedule had left Arthur looking out of sorts and bored.

"I thought _you_ provided the distraction, dear," Morgana replied sweetly, and Merlin gritted his teeth, because as fond as he was of the senior curator, her verbal sniping could be extremely trying. Arthur had been complaining about this ever since he'd known him.

Plus, she had spoken within hearing distance of Lance and Leon, who were now grinning like a pair of five-year-olds.

Well, _some_ things definitely had been easier in the days when he and Arthur were on the DL.

And Morgana was correct in one respect; Arthur was almost never restless at home, where Merlin's presence offered ample distraction. They had what seemed to Merlin to be absolutely unbelievable amounts of sex, but afterwards (or more accurately, between bouts) they were very comfortable and at ease together, whether reading or watching television, or doing the washing-up after meals. (Arthur was still hopeless when it came to cooking, so they either dined out, ordered take-away, or relied on Merlin to produce a vegetable something-or-other that they both could eat.) There were now two desks in Arthur's study, with two computers; Merlin's books had been added to the rows of volumes on Arthur's bookcases, and he and Arthur spent hours doing research in companionable silence, pausing occasionally to exchange information or - just as often - hurl casual insults at each other.

"Stop trying to read private emails over my shoulder," Merlin had already complained more than once. "Unless I say you can."

"No worries," was a typically Arthur-ish reply. "Your ears are quite blocking my view."

Then they would go back to bed and have more unbelievable amounts of sex.

Merlin was beginning to wonder whether shirts that fastened with velcro wouldn't be a good idea.

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According to Arthur, Aredian had said nothing out of the ordinary during his brief visit. Yes, he agreed, it was odd that the "retired" conservator had stopped into the Insitute to visit them, as he had never done so before. Yes, he knew it was at Uther's request. _Yes_, it was extremely irritating, but there was nothing to be done about it, and why should they care, anyway? Then he announced that _yes_, they were going to have a staff meeting next week, even if things were slow, and he didn't care if the others would prefer not to, because his word was law.

"Pendragons tend to have difficulty with the concept of democracy," Morgana said when she heard about this. "We have absolutely no need for a staff meeting next week. Arthur just wants something to do."

"To distract him, you mean?" Merlin asked, and Morgana gave an elaborate shrug.

Having sex was evidently one of Arthur's favorite forms of distraction that month, and Merlin wasn't complaining, but he was also beginning to wonder what would happen when the two of them were in London together, in _Uther's home_. He wasn't terribly worried about Ealdor; they were staying at an inn rather than with his mother (their excuse being that they didn't want to be underfoot in her very small house), but in London they would have to sneak, and it was going to be tricky. Particularly since Arthur's libido seemed to be in overdrive these days.

"What is going on with you, Pendragon?" Merlin managed to gasp one Friday night, quite late, when Arthur found himself unable to sleep and wanted, no, needed, _a great deal_ of distraction.

"Do you want me to stop, Merlin?" Arthur mumbled against his throat, between bites and nibbles. They had been making love since well before midnight, and unless Arthur's digital clock was broken, it was now well past one.

"N-no," replied Merlin, hoping his neck scarf wasn't somewhere in the laundry. Arthur was blessed with a set of rather sharp and definitely pointed eye teeth, which looked charming when he smiled. "I don't. But-"

"Hmmmm," said Arthur, magnanimously rolling them over so that Merlin was on top.

"Morgana says you have difficulty with democracy," Merlin panted, moments later. "But she isn't right about everything."

In response, Arthur said "Shut up," and then "_Oh_," and then "_Mer_lin," with a little, ragged catch in his voice, squeezing his eyes shut, and tightening his hands in Merlin's hair. Of course Morgana wasn't right about everything. He might be a dominant type of male by nature, but with Merlin he felt it was only fair to offer the opportunity to switch roles on occasion. That is, it seemed only fair to let Merlin do, uh, _that _to him, since he had been doing_ that_ to Merlin for some time.**

"Are you...are you alright, Arthur?" Merlin asked with genuine concern afterwards.

"Never better," said Arthur. "You know, I really do think I could sleep now."

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A very different sort of distraction (or so it seemed at first) was offered by a series of lectures on medieval manuscripts, being held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was open to the public, for a fee, but medievalists and museum staff from various institutions around the country received free invitations. Naturally, Arthur and Morgana received them, as did Gaius, Gwen, and Will. If Merlin was put out at not having been sent one, he didn't show it.

"Don't tell me our dear friends in the Medieval Department have forgotten about you," Arthur said. "What short memories they have."

Arthur was certain that the Met would send Merlin an invitation, but there were moments when he enjoyed giving his conservator a hard time.

"I'll just go online, pay the fee, and reserve a seat, like everybody else in the general public," Merlin was saying with cheerful equanimity. "That's fine with me."

"If you want a proper, official, and _free_ invitation from the Metropolitan's staff, I'm sure they'd be happy to send one if you call the Medieval Department, and give them your name," Arthur continued. "They just need a little reminding. Or you can ask that Miss Coulby, in the Special Events office, she'll send you one. She's a nice, efficient sort of girl...I went out with her for a bit, two years ago."

"Oh," said Merlin with studied nonchalance, but Arthur was not fooled in the least.

"And if you don't want to wait for the post, you can _beg_ them to send one over by messenger. They're barely three blocks away."

"I'm not in the habit of _begging _for anything," Merlin said stiffly.

"Oh, really?" Arthur retorted, suddenly smug. "I seem to recall several occasions..._Oh, Arthur, don't stop...more, Arthur, more please_...but I suppose those don't count?"

Merlin's pillowy lips tightened into a thin line as his cheeks flamed crimson, and Arthur immediately assumed a dubiously contrite expression as he reached out and pulled Merlin against his chest.

"Just joking," he said, working very hard to keep from grinning as he stared into Merlin's eyes, which had gone midnight blue and stormy.

"You are the most conceited, arrogant prat I have ever met," Merlin muttered before Arthur kissed him.

After a while he removed his lips from Merlin's and pressed light kisses along the length of his jaw, on the sensitive spot just below his ear (that he knew made Merlin shiver every time), and down the pale column of his throat. When he raised his head he could see that his conservator's eyes had gone soft and dreamy, and his cheeks, no longer crimson, were delicately flushed.

Merlin closed his eyes. "_More_, Arthur," he whispered.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

His invitation arrived in the post the following morning (which happened to be Saturday), and Arthur crowed with laughter whilst Merlin glowered at him. He pretended to be angry for the next hour, but Arthur suspected this might be a ploy to get Arthur to drag him into the bedroom. Whatever the case, it certainly worked.

"I should get out of this bed and do something useful," Merlin finally said in the early afternoon, extricating his thin, long-limbed self from the twisted bedclothes, and then sitting up and looking businesslike. "I promised Gaius I would look over his old condition reports on all of the sculptures."

"You said that an hour ago," Arthur mumbled into the pillow.

"That was before I got an earful of _Oh Merlin, please more, do that again, please_..."

"Right, point taken," Arthur snapped, pounding the pillow with his fist. "We'll _both_ get up and do some work, you confounded idiot."

"I always said, it takes one to know one," Merlin said with a straight face, and ducked as a pillow and then a bolster sailed briskly past his head.

They were halfway dressed, and Merlin was struggling into his tee shirt (having quite given up on wearing shirts with buttons, while at home) when his elbow caught Arthur on the chin by accident, and Arthur tackled him in retaliation. During the ensuing melee, which ended in the usual manner, it occured to Merlin that perhaps they were being driven by the growing realization that they would probably _not_ be sleeping together in London, and were making up for it in advance.

Finally, just when it seemed as though almost anything Arthur and Merlin did, professionally or privately, was going to end in yet another session of what Arthur gleefully called "unbridled lust" (and honestly, it was getting to the point where they were seriously, unquestionably sleep-deprived), the lull in office activity ended, and an email from Uther materialized on Arthur's computer the same morning.

* * *

** Since Chapter 22 of "Inside the Pendragon Institute," anyway. Although they became lovers in Chapter 14.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Preparations**

"Arthur," Morgana exclaimed at the sight of her yawning stepbrother. "Are those airline tickets? And are you sure you're not ill? You look pale, and you've got circles under your eyes."

The Assistant Director could only be grateful that Merlin was safely downstairs, ensconced in the Paper Conservation studio, so that Morgana couldn't see the dark shadows beneath _his _eyes. Looking at him that morning, whilst he was still asleep and sprawled all over the kingsized mattress, mouth soft and relaxed, hair standing on end and tufted like a lynx's, and one hand clutching a pillow as though it were a teddy bear, Arthur had found the title of that '60s rock ballad by Procol Harum, "A Whiter Shade of Pale," flashing into his mind.

Not wanting to hear any further comments about his own pallor, Arthur retreated towards his office door, stuffing his newly-printed airline e-tickets into his pocket.

"I'm fine, Morgs," he replied shortly, pushing open the door with one hand and brandishing a Starbucks grande with the other. "The alarm system's off the rails again. Gwen says she found insect frass in the textile storage room. Father's sent me an email, and I thought I might need some coffee before I read it."

"What's frass?" Leon asked in passing. "It sounds like some kind of salad."

"It's insect shit, not to put too fine a point on it," Morgana said, frowning. "And that means we need to have liquid nitrogen treatment again."

"Bloody nuisance," mumbled Arthur, stepping into his office. With one hand on the door, he turned back towards Morgana. "Everything's set for London. You'll be pleased to know the airline tickets and seating are all in order. As are arrangements for the car. And the inn at Ealdor."

"One room or two?" asked Morgana, archly. Arthur promptly shut the door in her face.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Dear Arthur,_

_We look forward to your visit in three weeks' time. The house in Kensington is temporary, but I've had a number of our things moved there, and I trust you will be comfortable. There will be at least one dinner with some museum colleagues, including Aredian, who, I understand, visited you quite recently. Cornelius Sigan will contact you to arrange a meeting with both you and your junior conservator. Elaine hopes that you will be pleased with your room, which is two doors away from mine. Mordred offered to give up his room for Merlin, but I believe that the guest bedroom across the hall from his is perfectly adequate and will do nicely. Thank you for sending the Institute's attendance figures for April. I shall be out of the office for most of today; you may telephone me if you have any questions._

_Your affectionate father._

Well, that made things quite plain. Arthur had been expecting it, but he was annoyed to see that Uther had made a point of telling him he and Merlin would _not_ be sharing a room.

To his surprise, there was an email from Mordred on his computer.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I can't wait to see you and Merlin in June. It's been horribly boring here. I've been reading some Stephen Hawking for something to do, although I think Richard Feynman is more fun. Particle physics is cool. I don't like this house and hope they finish fixing our real one very soon. Morgana wrote and told me she'd be coming to London for a weekend. I think she must have a boyfriend Father doesn't approve of, because he looks cross whenever I talk about her. If she marries him, I think Father would have an apoplexy. I don't suppose you could marry Merlin? I would really like to keep him in the family. Please bring lots of choc bars when you come, and don't let Father see. He thinks they're bad for me, even if I don't have any spots._

_Love, Mordred_

_P.S. I've made something that should be helpful to you and Merlin. I can't describe it, but I will show it to you when you're here._

"Good lord! said Arthur out loud. "Particle physics? How old is the boy, eleven?" _Morgana...must have a boyfriend-_ How had Mordred figured that one out? He'd have to remember to pack the choc bars in his luggage. _I don't suppose you could marry-_ Arthur scowled and bit his lower lip. _Something that should be helpful to you and Merlin- _What on earth? Arthur wasn't even going to try to imagine what the child was talking about.

The office phone rang and Arthur wearily picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

"Don't forget, Arthur," Morgana said. "We're attending those lectures at the Metropolitan Museum tomorrow."

"Right," replied the Assistant Director grimly. He rang off, swearing under his breath at no one in particular, and turned back to his computer.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Perhaps the gods were watching over him that week, Arthur thought, because the lectures at the Metropolitan turned out to be relatively painless. They were brief and to the point, the accompanying powerpoint images were interesting, and the crowd was a mixture of interested art lovers from the general public and professionals from the museum world. The worst bit was having to be pleasant to the Met's senior medieval curator, Dr Morgause Lothian, who had the grace to look embarrassed when Arthur appeared in the auditorium with Merlin in tow. The second-worst moment came after the talks, when Arthur, Morgana, and the other attending Institute staffers caught a glimpse of Nimueh, Head of Conservation at the Boston Museum of Fine Art. Arthur hadn't seen her since he and Merlin had been in Santa Barbara for an exhibition opening (after which they had slept together for the first time), but he had a vivid memory of the manner in which she had all but propositioned Merlin during the opening's reception.

She had wanted him to leave the Institute and defect to her conservation staff at the Boston Museum, but it seemed she had wanted him for other things as well.

Nimueh smiled at Merlin from across the crowded auditorium, and Merlin, for this occasion neatly attired in a jacket and tie, blushed and waved tentatively in her general direction.

"Thank God that's over with," Arthur snarled as he and his colleagues headed back to the Institute. "Now we can get back to ordinary matters like broken alarm systems, liquid nitrogen treatment, and insect crap."

Relieved at having the Met lectures over with, the airline tickets purchased, and everything under control but the packing, Arthur felt energetic enough, after work, to rapidly divest Merlin of that respectable jacket and tie, ruin another perfectly good shirt by sending the buttons flying, and push his junior conservator onto the bed in spite of his astonished half-protests.

"Are we going for a world record, Arthur?" Merlin asked after a while, but Arthur wouldn't let him say anything more.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A week before the Assistant Director and Merlin departed for their "working vacation" ("working" because they would be meeting with collectors and hobnobbing with colleagues), Lance held a rooftop party and invited the entire staff of the Institute. The roof of his large, modern apartment building was fitted out with a deck, trees and flowers planted in tubs, and a large grill. Armed with barbecue sauce, a mountain of ribs, chops, and chicken wings, the host – remarkably good-looking even when swathed in a chef's apron vast enough to have been designed for a sumo wrestler – took charge of the cooking for the better part of an hour. After that, he sat down gratefully in a deck chair, and anybody who wanted to take a turn at the grill was free to do so. As usual, a vegetable dish, in this instance a plate of lovely sautéed vegetables and grilled corn on the cob, was provided for Merlin.

Gwen and Merlin watched with amusement as Arthur selected an enormous rib-eye steak and deposited it on the barbecue grill.

"Are you ready to face the enemy in London?" Gwen asked Merlin. They both smiled as Arthur backed away from the grill and flung himself into a nearby chair. "I meant Uther, of course."

"Well, erm, I suppose I'll just be polite and say as little as possible," Merlin said, fidgeting. "And I'll try to stay out of his way."

They sat in meditative silence for a while, watching the intrepid New York pigeons wheel and soar above the city rooftops. Merlin was surreptitiously admiring the way the sunlight illuminated Arthur's fair hair, turning it a brilliant shade of gold, when Gwen suddenly gave a giggle.

"Uther's much nicer to me now than he was in the days when, well, Arthur and I were going out, at uni," she said, remembering. "He was absolutely delighted when we split up. Now he's positively_ friendly _when he sees me."

"Oh...erm..."

"It took me a while to figure out how to behave in his presence. Just don't talk back to him and everything will be fine," Gwen said reassuringly. In a whisper she added, "After all, in this day and age he's _hardly_ likely to have you put in the stocks for being Arthur's…for having…for…for being, oh bloody hell, you know what I mean."

"No, he's more likely to have me burned at the stake," Merlin replied with a half smile.

"Steak!" shouted Arthur, leaping to his feet. He strode to the grill and then stared with dismay at the charred piece of beef that appeared to be sending up smoke signals.

"That's done it!" the Assistant Director said with chagrin, eyeing the carbonized substance sizzling away on the metal bars. The other Institute staff members made an effort to hide their mirth, whilst Gwen gave him a sympathetic smile and replaced the burnt steak with a fresh one.

"I'll watch it this time, Arthur," she said kindly. "Everybody knows you're barely capable of boiling water."

"It's your fault, as usual," Arthur murmured under his breath to Merlin, who was sniggering. "Now I'll have to devour _you_." This was said softly enough, so that nobody else could overhear him, but Merlin turned a mildly shocked face in Arthur's direction.

"Not _here_," whispered Merlin, wide-eyed. "And how is it my fault?"

"Everything's _always _your fault," came the cheerfully acerbic reply. "Consider yourself lucky that I put up with it."

Merlin snorted and cast a doubtful eye over the empty lager cans next to the Assistant Director's deck chair. "He bullies me all the time," he then announced to Gwen. "And since spring arrived, it's got really bad."

"Excuse me?" said Arthur, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, I'm so _sorry_ you're being _bullied_, _Mer-_lin."

Gwen rolled her eyes and diplomatically moved away to the other side of the deck.

"This hasn't ceased to amaze me," Morgana said softly to Gwen as the two dragged their deck chairs closer to Lance and Leon. From there, they could watch Arthur and Merlin's animated exchange without being too obvious. "I've never seen Arthur like this with anyone. I mean with anyone with whom he was, well, you know."

"Amazing," Gwen agreed wryly.

"No offense," Morgana said apologetically, suddenly recalling Gwen and Arthur's university fling.

"None taken," Gwen replied, rolling her eyes again. "Arthur and I are quite fond of each other, but we put that little phase behind us long ago. He's been like a brother to me, ever since then. Odd, isn't it?"

"Sounds incestuous," said Morgana, wrinkling her nose. "Oh look, this is really _cute_!"

As they watched, Merlin grinned and said something brief, and the Assistant Director threw back his head and laughed.

"Don't use that word in front of Arthur," Gwen smiled. "If there's anything he hates, it's being called _cute_."

"Lovely," Morgana replied, gloatingly. "I'll refer to him as '_our cute Assistant Director'_ in my next inter-office memo."

"You're terrible," said Gwen severely, standing up. "Last call for the grill. Will you deliver that steak to His Highness, or shall I?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Packing, and the Perils of Publicity**

"Don't forget to bring your Ray-Bans," Merlin said. He was balanced on the arm of a large, upholstered chair, watching Arthur create piles of clothing, road maps, and papers on the bed, next to his large suitcase and smaller carry-on bag. An impressive mountain of discarded, folded shirts lay on the floor.

"Why is it you think I'm so attached to them?" Arthur inquired peevishly, hunting in one pile for his spare shaving kit.

"You think they make you look like a film star," replied his irrepressible conservator. "I've seen you admiring yourself in the mirror when you have them on."

Arthur hurled a knotted-together pair of socks in his direction. Merlin raised one hand, successfully batted them away, and fell off of the chair arm with a muffled squawk.

"Serve you right," said Arthur, abandoning the packing and strolling over to the chair to hoist Merlin to his feet. "How'd you manage to find all that dust?"

"_Someone_ must have swept it under the chair," Merlin answered. "Instead of throwing it away."

"Well, don't look at _me_," Arthur said loftily, before he sneezed. His allergies had diminished, but his sinuses were still sensitive. "I never sweep if I can help it. That's what I hire Ellie for."

Ellie was the cleaning lady who came in twice a week, hoovered and mopped the floors, tidied up after Arthur (who tended to throw his clothes onto the carpet and forget about them), and kept the kitchen and bathroom spotless and sparkling.

"Ellie's very conscientious," Merlin muttered, coughing a little and brushing away the last of the dust. "She wouldn't sweep things under the chair. This is definitely Arthur dust."

Arthur gave him a warning look. He had been brushing dust off Merlin's tee shirt, an aged garment emblazoned on the front with a faded image of Eric Clapton. He continued brushing, although there was really no more dust, running the tips of his fingers down over Merlin's very flat stomach.

"No," said Merlin, trying to back away, which wasn't easy since Arthur had just fisted his hand in the worn cotton fabric.

"Sorry...didn't hear that," Arthur almost whispered as he took a step closer. Easily trapping Merlin against the wall, he released Eric Clapton and slid both hands beneath the shirt. Merlin's head fell back automatically and he gave a little sigh as Arthur's lips brushed his cheekbones.

"Arthur...don't you think, erm, that we've been having, erm, an...an _inordinate_ amount of sex these past few...these past few..."

"Weeks," said Arthur, closing his eyes as he felt the silky sweep of Merlin's black eyelashes against his mouth. "Inordinate? That's a big word, _Mer_lin." Somehow or other they were now on the floor, partly cushioned by the collapsed mountain of discarded shirts.

"This is really, I mean," insisted Merlin a little incoherently. "I mean it's not. Usual. I mean."

"No," agreed Arthur, gently tugging at Merlin's jeans. "But I don't want it to stop, do you?"

"No, but," Merlin protested. "I'm not going to do it on the floor, like a teenager. When there's a perfectly good bed just over there."

"There's too much _stuff_ on the bed," Arthur murmured. "Just once won't do any harm."

"But it's never just once," exclaimed Merlin, pulling Arthur's shirt over his head. "Maybe you should have your testosterone level examined."

"Idiot," said Arthur happily, tossing the shirt across the room.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Arthur," Merlin said. "This is _weird_!"

"Mmmmph," the Assistant Director responded, eyes closed. "We're a pair of weirdos, then."

Finding no logical response to make to this, Merlin subsided, running his lips absently along Arthur's hipbone.

Moments later, the telephone rang shrilly, startling them both out of their drowsy, contented state. Arthur fumbled for the phone, which had fallen onto the floor at some point during their proceedings, and then sneezed into the receiver.

"Oh...Morgana," he said, sniffling and hunting for tissues. "What is it _now_?"

There was a high-pitched babble from the receiver, and Arthur held it several inches away from his ear as he watched Merlin struggle back into his clothes.

"What was that about?" Merlin asked, wrestling with his tee shirt, which had caught on one of his ears. Arthur set the phone down and gave a histrionic sigh.

"Morgana's throwing Gwen a bridal shower," he explained, helping to unhook the tee shirt and pull it down over his conservator's slender, milky torso. "Not that it matters to us. It's ladies only, and we'll be away when it happens. Of course we'll be back in time for the wedding."

"We can buy a wedding present in London, I suppose," said Merlin, glancing over at his own suitcase, which was closed and standing upright next to the door. "And just pray that it fits in the luggage."

"Are you actually packed already?" Arthur exploded, staring. "And everything fit in there? I hope you're not bringing that disastrous brown jacket. It's practically worn to a shred." Pushing his hair off his forehead, he yawned and stretched.

Merlin surveyed the wreck of the bedroom floor and rolled his eyes. "Like a couple of teenagers," he mumbled.

Arthur reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately. "It wasn't all _that _long ago that you were a teenager," he said helpfully before getting to his feet and fishing his clothing out of the heap on the floor.

"And you're not all _that_ much older than I am," Merlin replied crossly, but Arthur was already through the door and halfway down the hall.

"I'm going to make us drinks and check emails," he called before disappearing into the study. "I'll just leave you to tidy up."

"Prat," muttered Merlin, reaching for the closest of the rumpled shirts.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was less than a week until their departure, and, miraculously, they managed to go for almost three days without having any sex at all. Merlin said they should be saving their strength for the ordeal of staying with Uther. Arthur, on the other hand, said that they should be having nonstop sex to make up for what they wouldn't be able to do overseas.

On the night of their second day of abstinence, they and several other Institute staffers attended a cocktail party to which members of the press had been invited. It had been a busy day, a host of technicians had finally arrived to put the finishing touches to a new alarm system, and Gaius and Merlin had been asked by the Assistant Director to round up all of the condition reports generated by the Conservation Department within the past year. Morgana thought some of them might be in her office files, so she was promptly roped into the project as well.

The cocktail party was held in the enormous flat belonging to one of the museum's trustees, and as usual, there seemed to be a great deal of liquor on hand. Arthur chatted with several journalists, one of whom wrote the society column for a local newspaper, and carefully monitored his own alcohol intake. It never occurred to him that the representatives from the press might be drunker than anybody else.

This likelihood was made clear to him the following day, when Merlin bought several different newspapers - the evening editions - and brought them home for inspection. Arthur was alerted to something out of the ordinary by a series of muffled whoops coming from the bedroom. Entering, he found Merlin collapsed on the bed, stifling his roars of laughter in a pillow. When queried by his Assistant Director, he pointed in the direction of the open newspaper beside him, mopping tears from his streaming eyes.

"I knew that journalist was drunk!" he coughed, indicating the society column.

The brief article mentioned several recent events attended by local luminaries, and gushed, in the most purple prose, over the previous night's party and the guests who had been there.

_...among the notable attendees were the stupendously handsome and unfailingly charming museum director, Arnold Pentagon, and his ravishing curator stepsister, Morgana LeFay..._

Arthur looked at the printed page with disbelief.

"Augh!" gasped his junior conservator. Arthur cast a stern look at his unruly colleague, who was now cackling uncontrollably, his cheeks gone quite pink and the remnants of his tears quivering on the tips of his lashes.

"Merlin, stop it!" Arthur said severely.

"No way," Merlin replied in a confrontational voice, wiping his eyes, his shoulders shaking with little fits and starts of laughter. "You can't make me."

"Right," said Arthur resignedly, unfastening his jacket and yanking at his tie.

And that was the end of their short-lived celibacy.

The next morning, shortly before eleven, Arthur strode into Morgana's office, where he found his stepsister and Merlin poring over piles of old notes and condition reports in a leisurely fashion.

"Excuse me," he said between his teeth. "I think I did say I needed those reports before ten o'clock this morning."

Two pale faces crowned with dark hair were lifted to his.

"My, my," said Merlin. "Arnold Pentagon, I presume."

Morgana lowered her head but Arthur could hear her giggling.

Arthur gave Merlin a sharp look that promised payback later in the day. At the very latest, sometime after dinner.

"I don't know which of you is more impossible," he said, holding out his hand for the condition reports.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Perhaps because of the Assistant Director's impending absence, the week's staff meeting was unusually entertaining and relaxed. Morgana regaled the room with a reading of the infamous newspaper article. Leon described some of the more amusing antics of visitors to the museum, and assured everybody that it was _definitely not true_ ("I don't know who makes these things up!") that a high school senior had been caught giving a bl…having oral sex with her boyfriend behind the twelfth-century altar in Gallery Two. Arthur quickly ran over the most recent attendance figures and the cost of the new alarm system, and Gaius briefly reviewed his department's progress in their treatment of Lord Moldywart.

"As this is the last staff meeting before my very brief vacation," Arthur said, "I suppose we should get as many issues dealt with as possible. What was that about the new items in the Gift Shop?"

"Oh," replied Morgana, smiling. "According to Edwin, those little toy knights in the children's section might be a problem. See, here's one, I thought we might have a look at it if we ran out of _serious_ things to discuss. Apparently they're terribly flammable, and some parents have complained."

"Really?" Arthur snapped, eyeing the plastic figurine. "Why were their children exposing their toys to fire in the first place?"

Morgana shrugged. "Perhaps they were pretending to be genuine medieval executioners. Or maybe they were just smoking pot."

"Oh really, Morgana!" Gwen interjected. "Those toys were designed for eight-year-olds."

"Eight-year-old potheads," said Morgana, airily.

"The details are quite accurate," Lance murmured, holding the miniature, black-clad knight up to the light and staring at it. "No wonder little boys like them. Wait, what are you _doing_, Merlin?" Merlin had snatched the plastic knight out of his hand.

"Only one way to test it," replied the junior conservator. He set a metal dish on an end table, and deposited the figurine in its center. The rest of the room looked on as he produced a book of matches.

"Merlin," said Arthur, surprised. "What are you doing, exactly?"

"Setting him on fire," was the casual response as Merlin fumbled with the matches.

"What!" Arthur asked, although he made no attempt to stop him.

"He's gonna burn," Merlin announced, straight-faced, before striking a match and applying it to the plastic knight. A jet of flame shot upward and faded seconds later, leaving the figure still standing.

"There!" said Lance with satisfaction. "It is_ not_ highly flammable. I don't know what those parents were yammering about."

"Well," Morgana smiled, fishing the singed knight out of the dish. "We'll just tell Edwin he can order another case of these, shall we?"

"Fine," muttered the Assistant Director, looking at his watch. "That little display of pyrotechnics has made me hungry. I'm dying for a nice, juicy beefburger, crispy on the outside."

"That's disgusting," said Merlin disdainfully, grimacing. "A roasted knight makes you feel hungry?"

"It makes _me_ feel hungry," said Gaius, clapping his young associate on the shoulder. "Not everybody can live off water, juice, and raw or cooked veg. Let's all go to Hengist's Grill for lunch, shall we? We can buy Merlin a salad when we get there."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Merlin Thinks Things Over **

"Mordred sent me an email this morning," Merlin said.

They were waiting to board their flight, watching the milling crowds and general bustle of Kennedy Airport. As they waited for their section of the airplane to be called, they double checked their tickets and passports, and looked to make certain their hand luggage was properly zipped and fastened. They were flying Business Class, a compromise of sorts, since Arthur refused to sit in the cramped quarters of Coach, and Merlin insisted that First Class was a waste of money.

"He sent me one last night," Arthur mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Said he hoped we had a pleasant time in Ealdor, and that he was looking forward to seeing us. He mentioned his secret present again, but wouldn't tell me what it is. Damn it all to hell! I forgot to pack the choc bars!"

"I packed them," Merlin replied in a self-congratulatory voice. If they had been alone, Arthur would have swatted him over the head.

Merlin had checked, repacked, and rechecked his luggage the night before, being uncharacteristically thorough and going over everything as carefully as he would have if he were examining a medieval manuscript or wall painting for damage. He had squirreled away his gifts for his mother in his carry-on, tested the straps of his suitcase, re-read the airline regulations and looked to see that there were no bottles of anything larger than 3.4 ounces. It seemed as though he had fiddled about with these things for ages, and all the while Arthur had been sitting up in bed, becoming increasingly impatient as he waited for Merlin to _bloody well finish up already_, so that they could...because they wouldn't be...

And when Merlin had finally slid between the sheets, grumbling about how they would have to have an early breakfast, Arthur seized him with such vehemence that Merlin was almost taken aback. A half hour later, still trembling a little, he opened his mouth to ask why Arthur was in such a state, but Arthur had kissed him, and his hands had gentled him, so that he hadn't said anything at all.

"Seats twenty-two A through twenty-five F may board now," boomed a female voice over the sound system, and the group of passengers around them surged forward. Once past the perpetually-smiling trio of ticket checkers and flight attendants, they walked down the passageway and entered the plane, found their way to their seats, and stowed their carry-on bags in the overhead compartments.

Arthur had appropriated the window seat and was staring out of the window at the tarmac, but Merlin was perfectly happy to sit on the aisle. Catching a glimpse of the Assistant Director's grim expression, he thought some inane chatter on his part might be in order, but could think of nothing to say other than: "D'you suppose Uther will have sent spies to Ealdor to scout out what we're up to during our stay?"

"Don't be ri_dic_ulous, _Mer_lin," Arthur said almost automatically, although he turned his head and grinned. "I didn't even tell him where we're going to be, before London."

Oddly enough, Merlin's dread of Uther and time spent in Uther's residence had faded, with the prospect of introducing Arthur to his mother and to Ealdor on the horizon. He had not gone into any detail when telling his mother about this trip; he had simply told her that he and Arthur Pendragon would be visiting for several days, and she had asked no questions. Perhaps she had already spoken with Gaius? It wasn't as though he expected Hunith to object to Arthur, or even to the nature of their relationship. She might be surprised - the last time she had seen him in a romantic situation with somebody it had been with Freya, his university girlfriend - but it was unlikely that she would disapprove in any way. In fact, he was certain that she would be happy for him, as long as he himself was happy. And he was fairly sure that she would be charmed with Arthur.

Merlin had always been a bit of an outsider in Ealdor, to which his mother had moved them days before he turned thirteen. (Why she had chosen to leave Northern Ireland she had never told him.) Nobody had treated him badly - apart from a few bullies at school, and Will had helped to end that situation - but nobody (apart from Will) had completely accepted him either. He had been too different from the other boys, thin, gawky, reserved, but clever with his hands, able to fix almost anything that broke, able to draw like Rembrandt at an early age. A reader, one of the only boys who spent hours in the local library. Odd. Unusual. There had been moments of loneliness, but on the whole he had a fondness for the place - for its nearby meadows and streams, its pretty country setting - and had enjoyed the holidays he spent there during his university years. He was looking forward to seeing it, was wondering what it would feel like to be there again, but this time not alone.

He had given the matter some attention only last night, his head pillowed on Arthur's shoulder, one hand on his chest, one leg flung over Arthur's thigh. Arthur was asleep; lately he had been falling asleep almost immediately after love, but Merlin wanted to stay awake a little longer to go over the next few days in his mind, and to enjoy Arthur when he was like this: not autocratic, not sardonic, not restless with energy, but calm and peaceful, and so beautiful to look at. He could feel the solidity of Arthur's collarbone against his face, Arthur's soft breaths lifting and fluttering the short, spiky layers of fringe above his brow.

How astonishing that he had ended up falling in love with Arthur Pendragon. The prat whose seeming sense of entitlement and outwardly arrogant air had so annoyed him when he he first came to work at the Institute. The handsome Assistant Director, worthy son of the even more famously autocratic Uther Pendragon, whose peremptory manner of ordering Merlin about had led to some of the most spectacular and loud arguments that the rest of the Institute staff had ever witnessed. What had finally drawn Merlin to him was the humanity, the essential kindness, the well-hidden feelings of inadequacy he had detected beneath the proud and aristocratic surface. He had sensed, as well, the emotional hesitancy of a young man who had grown up without the warmth and softness of a mother's touch. Arthur was (naturally) well known for his good looks, and within museum circles his bisexuality was fairly common knowledge, but it had been a while before Merlin had given that particular aspect of the Assitant Director any thought.

Merlin had never given much thought to his own sexuality either, in the years before he flew from London to New York to join the staff of the Pendragon Institute. His few relationships - all with young women - had been mostly with fellow students, relationships based as much on shared interests and shared studies as on emotional and physical need. His romance with Freya had been the longest of those, and they remained friends, still communicating periodically via email. From the first, he had admired Arthur's beauty (quite objectively) but had not been aware, at least consciously, of any attraction to him at all, until the business trip to Santa Barbara, California, that had resulted in their first intimate encounter. In the moments before they had lain down together Merlin had vacillated between desire and panic, but the touch of Arthur's hand, firm but gentle and confident, had been a revelation. There had been no turning back after that.

"No turning back now," muttered Arthur when the plane begn to move, almost as though he had read Merlin's mind.

"Right," said Merlin, eyes on the runway.

"I'd better have the car rental agreement ready," Arthur added, going through his pockets. "Oh, bloody...I packed it in the carry-on!"

"Don't lose your temper," Merlin said in what was meant to be a placating manner. "You'll have plenty of time to fish it out whilst we're standing on line for customs. Stop gnashing your pointy teeth, and calm down."

"I do not gnash my teeth," replied Arthur levelly. "So what did Mordred say in his email to you?"

Merlin shrugged a little and smiled. "Nothing new. Wants to talk about the latest conservation techniques, and whether he can learn how to do thermoluminescence testing, at his age."

What he didn't repeat was Mordred's final statement: _I hope you can stay part of the family, Merlin._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

Less than an hour into the flight, Merlin dozed off and slept the sleep of the just and innocent until Arthur nudged him awake. A flight attendant was bending over them, demanding to know whether they wanted beef or pasta for their meal.

The rest of the flight was completely uneventful. Arthur read the newspaper, drowsed for an hour, and then sat up and scribbled notes in his daily planner. Merlin paged through a magazine, watched the first half hour of the in-flight movie without using the headphones, and then amused himself by making up composite titles for future action films: "Harry Potter and the Temple of Doom," "Harry and Draco Go to White Castle,"* "Indiana Jones and the One Ring," "Kirk and Spock Meet Master and Commander," and "Rocky Loves Rambo."

De-planing was the usual hassle, with the rush of passengers to retrieve bags from the overhead bins, whilst others, in a rush to catch connecting flights, stampeded down the aisle like a herd of angry cows (or at least, that was how Arthur described them). Once through customs, luggage claimed, Arthur located their rented car and fiddled with the keys whilst Merlin hurled their suitcases into the boot.

"For pity's sake!" Arthur remonstrated. "Be careful, won't you? I have breakable things in there!"

Arthur drove well and confidently, in keeping with the way he did most things that involved hand-eye coordination. Merlin was in charge of the road map, and he found, to his grave embarrassment, that he had to keep turning his eyes away from Arthur's hands, where they gripped the steering wheel.

"Don't look so anxious, Merlin," Arthur sighed after navigating and finally escaping the dense traffic around the airport, and easing their car onto the motorway. "I'm sure the Institute will survive a couple of weeks without us."

"Do you think?" Merlin replied, smiling. "Will said we wouldn't recognize the place when we got back. And what will all of those poor little schoolgirls do, the ones who come to the Institute to take notes for their art history classes, but are really there to catch a glimpse of the fabled Mr Pendragon?"

"They won't miss a thing," Arthur stated flatly. "They can look at Lance instead. I mean, he's ridiculously good looking, and quite puts me in the shade."

"That's a matter of opinion," his conservator murmured, turning faintly pink along the cheekbones. "I imagine half the girls of Ealdor will be lined up at your bedroom door tomorrow night."

"Really?" asked Arthur, entertained by the thought. "Only half? Where will the other half be?"

"Well, they won't be at my door," Merlin said adamantly. "They'll be: 'Oh look, it's that Merlin with the funny ears, back from the States, oh, and look at who he's brought with him, some gorgeous blond bloke who looks like he could take on every single one of us and still have energy for more, and oh, did you know he's the son of U-'"

"That'll do, _Mer_lin, I need you to watch for the exit," growled Arthur sternly, but his lips were twitching. "By the way, what was it you had to pay Ellie extra for, this morning? I left instructions about everything, and she'll clean once a week while we're away, and throw out whatever's left in the refrigerator."

"I was paying her for sewing buttons back on my shirts," Merlin replied affably. "She offered to do it for free, but I said no, of course not. She's been puzzled about all the buttons she keeps picking up off the floor, and I couldn't exactly explain to her how they got there in the first place."

"No?" Arthur asked, eyes on the road.

"No," said Merlin decidedly. "I could hardly say, 'Well, Ellie, you see, your employer, Mr Pendragon, is so impatient to get his hands on my...erm, on me that he can't be bothered with a few buttons.'"

"I'm impatient?" Arthur was tapping his fingers on the wheel.

"Patience isn't one of your virtues, exactly," said Merlin, and then realized that he should have kept his mouth shut. Arthur's eyes were suddenly sparkling with deviltry, and he was grinning widely. If there was anything Arthur could not resist it was a challenge, and Merlin had just offered him one.

"Oh?" murmured Arthur, his voice as smooth as cream. "Is that so, _Mer_-lin? Wait until we have a little time alone together, with no interruptions, and we'll see whether patience is one of my virtues or not."

Merlin swallowed and then looked at the road map. "It's the next exit," he announced, glad for a change of subject, because Arthur's expression was becoming positively smug. "After that, you drive straight for an hour. If you're not too tired, we can make it to Ealdor in time for dinner."

* * *

**I don't know whether the comedy film, "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle," made it overseas, but it was very popular in the States. For those not familiar with American fast food, White Castle is a chain of very inexpensive burger restaurants, famous for their small, square burger patties cooked with chopped onion.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Ealdor**

"I told you it was a small town," Merlin said when he saw Arthur's raised eyebrows.

Being fully aware of Arthur's general stamina (and having experienced it first hand), Merlin was not surprised to see that after a drive of more than three and one half hours, he was still wide awake, calm, and relaxed. The car rolled to a stop in front of Merlin's old home - yes, it did look smaller than he remembered - and Merlin had barely stepped out of the passenger seat when the door was flung open and Hunith came outside.

"Oh, Merlin!" burst from her lips, and she flung her arms around his neck. Merlin hugged back, a little embarrassed, but happy beyond measure to see her again, still strong and upright, still brown-haired, still bright-eyed and rather pretty.

"Let me look at you!" She cupped his face in her hands for a moment, and then stood back, eyes shining with pleasure and with tears. "You've got a bit thinner."

"Erm," said Merlin, because this was exactly what Arthur had told him she would say.

"How was your flight?" Hunith was still looking him over, noting the shorter, spikier haircut, the well-cut jacket. Her eyes strayed to the signet ring on his right hand, and widened perceptibly.

"Heathrow was chaos, Kennedy was worse," her son replied, glancing over at Arthur. The Institute's Assistant Director was now leaning against the car, wearing his Ray-Bans and smiling, deliberately keeping his distance until Merlin should be ready to introduce him.

"I, erm, don't believe you've ever met Arthur Pendragon," Merlin began, instantly feeling stupid because of course his mother had never met him. "From the...the Pendragon Institute..."

His voice trailed off, but Arthur was stepping forward, pulling off his Ray-Bans, one hand held out. Hunith smiled a little self-consciously and shook hands, her expression one of mingled nervousness and admiration. Merlin stood mute as they murmured polite how-do-you-dos, and Hunith hoped Arthur hadn't had difficulty with the roads, and apologized in advance for the condition of her sitting room.

Once inside, she went to fetch tea from the kitchen and Arthur made himself comfortable in the largest armchair. Merlin prowled about the room, looking as anxious as a cat in a strange house, inspecting photographs on the mantlepiece, books on the bookshelf, and anything that looked unfamiliar or out of place.

Over the next hour, he managed to stop feeling like such an _idiot_, relax enough to laugh and joke with his mother, cut slices of fruitcake without knocking anything over, and howl with outrage when she offered to show Arthur her photo albums of old Merlin pictures. ("No, no, no!" he shouted, crimson to the ears. "Tomorrow, then," Arthur said, grinning evilly in his direction.) They talked about the Institute, Gaius ("The dearest, kindest man!" Hunith said enthusiastically), the work Merlin was doing in the Conservation Department, and the planned visit to London, but they mentioned neither Merlin's presence in Arthur's New York flat, nor the Pendragon signet ring on Merlin's finger. Arthur was charming to Hunith, and extremely courteous, even deferential ("I can't believe you, I must be hallucinating," Merlin said to Arthur when she left the room to fetch more milk for the tea), and by the time Merlin suggested that they take their bags over to the inn, it was plain that she quite liked him and enjoyed his company. They agreed to meet the next morning, after breakfast, and when Arthur produced a large, wrapped box of chocolates she exclaimed with pleasure and thanked him with genuine warmth.

Arthur asked for a quick look at Hunith's garden and admired her tidy flowerbeds, trellised vines, and espaliered pear trees, whilst Hunith and Merlin stood in the doorway and watched him.

"These are splendid," Arthur murmured at the sight of Hunith's prize-winning yellow roses.

Merlin felt his mother squeeze his hand.

"He's lovely, Merlin," she said under her breath, but there was no time for confidences as Arthur turned and walked back to them.

"I'm sure you'll want some time together without me," Arthur said before they took their leave, and Merlin managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. Arthur then suggested that Hunith have dinner with them, but she insisted that they must be exhausted, and promised to join them the following evening.

She hugged Merlin again before they climbed back into the car, pressed her lips against his cheek, and squeezed his hand for a second time. He could feel her tracing the dragon rampant on the signet ring, with her finger.

It took less than five minutes to drive to the inn, where they checked in, and then unloaded their bags under the eyes of a few locals who stared first at Merlin (with a slowly dawning recognition) and then at Arthur. As Merlin had insisted that everybody in town was an inveterate gossip, they had booked separate rooms, which turned out to be just as well, since there were quite a few other visitors in residence and the rooms were all rather close together.

"Dinner in fifteen minutes," said Arthur, and disappeared into his room. In his own little chamber, cozy and decorated in a vaguely English country-cottage style, Merlin flung down his luggage, unpacked what he would need for the next day, and collapsed into a comfortable, over-stuffed chair. Moments later, Arthur knocked on the door and sauntered in.

"This place is perfectly comfortable," he announced as Merlin struggled out of the billowing cushions. "And the restaurant looks promising. So much for all of your rubbish about how I wouldn't like it here."

"I am _not_ going to let you see those photo albums," Merlin muttered, and Arthur grinned even more evilly than he had before.

They went downstairs and nodded to the proprietor and his wife. The daughter, a nubile redhead with spectacular frontal assets, eyed Arthur from behind the front desk.

"What did I tell you?" whispered Merlin. "She'll be texting all her friends now, and the queue should be forming on the right by the time we get back."

"Shut _up_!" Arthur hissed in reply.

In the little restaurant attached to the inn, Arthur ate something resembling shepherd's pie, which was extremely tasty, and Merlin cautiously consumed roasted vegetables. After pudding, which looked like a confused cross between strawberry shortcake and trifle (but tasted very nice), they went for a stroll down the main street, at the end of which Merlin pointed out the bridge he used to stand on and watch the river, on his way home from school.

They stood on the bridge, peaceably saying nothing, their eyes flickering from the water to each other.

"Your old neighbors are quite civilized, _Mer_lin," Arthur commented as they made their way back from the bridge to the inn. They passed several people, all of whom smiled and nodded at them pleasantly. "I don't know what you've been complaining about."

"I never said they weren't civilized," Merlin retorted. "What were you expecting? Village half-wits loitering in the square, drooling all over, and people coming up to you and saying, 'What do 'ee want wi' me and mine'? Or, 'My soul, have 'ee iver seen the like? Our Merlin walkin wi' the likes of Arthur Pendragon. 'Tes flyin in the face of Nature.' Anyway, I wasn't really _complaining_."

Arthur laughed until he coughed.

"I think I'll stop into the local Historical Society tomorrow," he said when he could speak properly. "That'll give you some time alone with your mum. What time's breakfast?"

"From seven to eight thirty, I think," Merlin replied, wondering what the director of the Historical Society (his sixth form history teacher, if he remembered correctly) would make of Arthur. "The inn's full, all of the rooms are taken, so they're extending the breakfast period by half an hour."

"Fine," said Arthur, his mind now dwelling on Merlin's mother, and her absent former husband. What had he been like? Hunith was still an attractive woman, but it was not from her that Merlin had gotten his dark hair and ivory skin, his angular, oddly arresting beauty.

At the door to Merlin's bedroom they faced each other a little sheepishly.

"I realize," Arthur whispered, "that, under the circumstances, I probably shouldn't share your little room with you tonight."

"Quite right, I agree," Merlin whispered back with a half smile. In the silvery moonlight from the nearby window, he looked almost ethereal, otherworldly, fragile; that bony face looked almost exquisite. If this had been a few hundred years ago, and if Arthur were superstitious, he might have thought to himself, "Changeling."

"I agree, under the circumstances." Merlin was whispering. "That is, you've been known to be rather loud at...at times."

"What!" Arthur said, forgetting to whisper. "I? I think 'we' would be the more accurate word, all things considered. But I haven't forgotten your challenge, _Mer_lin, and I mean to prove to you that you're mistaken."

"Oh," said Merlin, shivering as Arthur's fingers lightly stroked the nape of his neck. Casting a furtive glance along the hallway, to make certain nobody else was about, he slid one arm around Arthur's waist and raised his face. Arthur pulled him closer and kissed him thoroughly and almost forcefully, tongue probing, until Merlin felt his knees starting to buckle. He bit down lightly on Arthur's upper lip, and felt him quiver in his turn.

Then he pulled away abruptly, and opened his door.

"Goodnight, Arthur," he murmured, shooting one look at him from beneath his lashes.

"Bloody tease," said Arthur, grimacing, glad for the dimness of the hall which made his aroused state almost undetectable.

A sleepy looking elderly couple appeared at the top of the stairs, shambling toward one of the rooms, and Merlin's door shut with a gentle click.

Safely in his own room, sprawled on top of the featherbed and waiting for his blood to cool, Arthur sent Merlin a text message:

_Busy thinking up punishments 4 u just u wait & c. sleep well. A_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: A Round Peg in a Square Hole**

Arthur Pendragon was an urbanite, a city man, and when he was awakened by the twittering of birds and the shrieking of a very large, very agitated crow outside of his window, it took him a moment to adjust to things, and to remember precisely where he was.

Once washed and dressed, he stalked down the hall to Merlin's room, tantalized by the scent of frying sausages and eggs wafting up the stairs. To his surprise, the door to Merlin's bedroom was unlocked; he entered and stood looking down at his sleeping junior conservator.

Merlin was curled up in a tangled mess of sheets and blankets, his hair every which way, full, pink lips just slightly parted, his breath purring through them like a kitten's. This was almost too endearing a sight to be borne, and Arthur had to fight against the desire to climb into the warm and downy bed, gather that thin, almost delicate body into his arms, and caress Merlin into wakefulness. But such actions obviously might lead to other things, so he put one hand on Merlin's shoulder instead, and shook him lightly.

"Murfff," said Merlin into the bedclothes, opening one eye and then closing it again.

"Time for breakfast, you idiot," snapped Arthur almost sharply, because he _really wanted to climb into that bed_. "Get up, or I'll make you get up."

Sighing, Merlin sat up and swung his legs out of the bed. "Breakfast," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, like a child.

"I can smell the sausages," Arthur said, more gently. "So please get dressed, before I faint from hunger."

"I don't eat sausages," Merlin replied, looking annoyed, but he stood up obediently and looked around for his clothes. Arthur handed them to him, and then stood looking at the ceiling as Merlin pulled off the white tee shirt he had slept in, and fumbled into his jeans.

"Did you sleep well?" Merlin asked, yawning and then looking sidelong at Arthur with a mischievous smile. "I read your text."

"I slept beautifully, you...you..." growled Arthur. "But there's a hideous bird outside my window. Do you realize," he added, eyes still averted from Merlin's semi-nakedness, "that you left your door unlocked last night?"

"Did I really?" Merlin answered drowsily. "Perhaps I was subconsciously hoping that some of the local girls would visit me after they'd finished with you."

"Over my dead body," Arthur snorted. "After they finished with me, I told them to stay away from you if they knew what was good for them. You're _mine_. I don't think they could have done much to you anyway, they were all quite exhausted after I'd had my way with them, _twice_, and-"

"Good lord," Merlin said, now fully clothed and looking slightly more awake. "We're maligning half of the female population of Ealdor. Good job we're only joking. All right, give me five minutes to wash my face, and so on, and I'll join you for breakfast."

"Right," said Arthur. "Are you really going to waltz about your village dressed like that?" With one hand he indicated Merlin's jeans and brown tee shirt.

"Yes," replied Merlin unapologetically. "Five minutes, and I'm with you." Grabbing his shaving kit, he vanished into the bathroom.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After downing a very eggy, hammy breakfast, along with sausages and toast, Arthur announced that he would take a stroll and then look into the Historical Society. Then he remembered that he had promised to visit Hunith right after breakfast, but Merlin assured him that she would be just as happy to see him after lunch. Having given Arthur directions to the Society, he watched as his Assistant Director set off with his digital camera and hand-drawn (by Merlin) map of the immediate area. In an effort to avoid looking like a tourist, Arthur had dressed in jeans and a green football jersey, but Merlin didn't think this was going to fool anybody.

"That's a pretty patch of woods, just over there," Arthur said before leaving, pointing to a copse in the distance. "I suppose that in the old days there was good hunting in this countryside."

"I suppose," Merlin responded diffidently. "And I _suppose_ if this were the old days, you'd be leading the pack with your hounds and your crossbow."

"Ha ha," muttered Arthur, looking his conservator up and down. "What would be the use? You'd come crashing through the trees like a great imbecile, falling over bushes, making a din and scaring away all the game."

"There was a legend about this part of the country," Merlin said, completely ignoring the insult. "From hundreds of years ago, naturally. People used to think a unicorn lived here. Funny, isn't it?"

"Did they send all of the village virgins out to try and catch it?" Arthur asked, one eyebrow raised.

"How should I know?" Merlin answered, shrugging. "All I know is _I've_ never seen one."

"You may _look_ virginal, _Mer_lin," Arthur said smugly. "But I have reason to know better."

Merlin watched Arthur's progress down the street, privately thinking that there was no way anyone was going to mistake him for a local. The unconsciously arrogant stride, the expensive Italian loafers, the Armani jeans, and of course those bloody Ray-Bans. Two young women, chatting outside a nearby house, turned their heads to watch him as he went past.

The roses dangling from the trellis near Hunith's door wafted their sweet scent across the path as Merlin approached. His mother must have been watching for him, because she had the door open before he could knock, and she was beaming just as happily as she had been the previous evening. Perhaps even more so, now that she had him all to herself.

"You're definitely thinner," she murmured, once she had got him inside, ensconced on the sofa with a mug of coffee in his hand. "Now, where's Mr Pendragon this morning?"

"Call him Arthur, he asked you to. He was going to come here with me, but I sent him off on his own. He's gone to the Historical Society; he wanted to see it. Everybody's been staring at him in the street, I'm afraid. I don't know that he's noticed, but he's a bit out of place here. You know, a square peg in a round hole."

"He's very handsome."

"Yeah, well..."

"You look well, darling...New York life agrees with you, then?"

"I like it," Merlin said simply.

"And your job?"

"I like that as well. And Gaius says that I'm good at what I do."

"I keep thinking about what happened this past winter. At that museum, the...the Metropolitan, wasn't it? That horrible man..."

"It was okay, Mum, I promise. The doctors said I was fine. Now what about you? Did your roses take first prize at the last fair? And, and how have you been otherwise?"

It was blatantly obvious that Merlin was edging around the subject they both needed to discuss, but Hunith decided not to push him. Instead, she launched into an account of recent doings of the local populace, making him laugh with her recitation of the best of the current gossip.

"The town committee for the restoration of local monuments has been busy," she said comfortably after a while, reaching for her teacup. "There were some arguments about the old mill, and whether it was worth keeping it intact. I had a few run-ins with Kanan; he's always been an arguer, and we even had a shouting match in the middle of the green. But it's all settled, and he apologized, and we get on quite well now, in fact..."

Merlin had been chuckling at the thought of Hunith in a shouting match with Kanan, a former roisterer and troublemaker turned serious craftsman. The fellow produced beautifully designed iron gates, complete with elegant scrollwork, and similar functional objects, but for all that he had become quite respectable, he was still known for his fiery temper. Not that he would ever be able to get the better of Hunith! Then Merlin noticed that his self-possessed and practical mother, far from looking put out, was actually blushing.

"Mum, you're not going to tell me that you, that you and Kanan...you're not, erm, _going out_...?"

"Oh Merlin! Not exactly. We...we're good friends, that's all, and we have tea at the inn every Friday."

"At the_ inn_!" Merlin bellowed, nearly knocking over his mug.

"You silly boy! In the restaurant."

"Well!" said Merlin, feigning indignation but grinning. "Just look at what happens when I'm not around to keep an eye on you."

"I could say the same," his mother countered, putting her hand on his shoulder. "But I think...you seem...well, what I'm trying to say is, I like your Mr Pendragon."

"He's not exactly _my_ Mr Pendragon," Merlin said, blushing in his turn. "I mean, he doesn't, erm, belong to me. We...we work very well together."

"I've been to the library, to read some of the, well, gossip in the American press," Hunith went on. "And when your mailing address changed, I wondered...and now I see that beautiful ring."

"Erm..."

"He's charming."

"He's a prat," Merlin suddenly blurted out. "But he's...underneath all that, he's..."

"I see," said Hunith, almost dryly. "And you and he...you're sharing a flat?"

"It's Arthur's flat, actually," said Merlin, pink with embarrassment.

Hunith touched Merlin's cheek gently.

"He seems to care about you," she said quietly. "I know he looked after you when the hospital discharged you. He certainly l-likes you."

"That's because he doesn't know me," replied Merlin jokingly.

"Well, if you're living together, I imagine he knows you fairly well by now," his mother said tartly. "And you, darling, do you...are you...?"

"Yeah, erm, I am," her son mumbled, and this time he did knock over his mug.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time Arthur materialized, a handbook from the Historical Society under one arm, it was just before noon, and the dreaded photograph albums were piled next to Hunith's sofa.

"I can't believe you're going to look at those," Merlin said to Arthur.

"I can't believe you're going to show him those," he said to his mother.

"You can look at _mine_ when we're in London," Arthur said calmly. "If they don't turn your stomach, nothing will. Just imagine, myself and Morgana dressed up as sweet little Christmas angels with tinsel haloes and foil-covered wings."

Merlin made a feeble gesture of surrender and slouched glumly in one of the armchairs whilst Arthur slowly paged through the albums, pausing every few minutes to roar with laughter. Hunith looked on smiling, occasionally providing an anecdote to go with a picture, to the amusement of Arthur and the total dismay of her son.

"I think this is my favorite," Arthur said, after leafing through numerous images of a baby Merlin, dark hair sticking up in little points like a Japanese anime character, blue eyes huge, ears ditto. The obligatory baby-in-a-nappy photo had his eyes watering with mirth, but just now he was pointing to a snapshot taken at a long ago country fair, years before Ealdor. An eight year old Merlin stood imprisoned in a set of make-believe stocks, looking very much as though he had just been pelted with tomatoes and other squishy veg by a group of grinning schoolmates.

"How was the Historical Society?" Merlin remembered to ask, when the last of the albums had been thoroughly perused, and Arthur finally stopped chuckling.

"Interesting," replied Arthur, waving the handbook. "Oh, the director, Mr. Howard, asked to be remembered to you. He said you wrote the most interesting essays, and had the worst handwriting, of all the sixth form students he can remember."

"I can't wait to get to London and hear all about your embarrassing youthful pranks," Merlin said with gritted teeth.

"I've arranged for lunch at the Blue Ribbon, down the street," Hunith interrupted, poking Merlin to get him to stop glowering. "They're expecting us there between one and two. So if you're ready...?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Patience is a Virtue**

Lunch at the Blue Ribbon, a charming pub just down the street, was extremely pleasant. A little brook ran just outside, and its gentle babble helped distract Merlin whilst his mother continued to relate Baby Merlin stories at the request of an attentive, grinning Arthur.

"Oh no, you don't," Arthur said as Merlin's eyes roamed toward the bar, where several farmers were ordering up pints of Guinness.

"I think need some, to help me deal with _this_," Merlin grumbled, but Arthur shook his head.

"You're quite right, Arthur," said Hunith, putting a final nail in the coffin. "Merlin never could hold his liquor."

"Liquor! It's only stout," Merlin began, but both of his companions stared at him disapprovingly. He wasn't certain why; after all, his alcohol intake was modest, he rarely got truly drunk, and he certainly wasn't going to get drunk on Guinness. Sighing, he simply gave up, wondering how, if at all, he could possibly get back at Arthur for this.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Do you do all of the gardening on your own?" Arthur asked, a while later, when they were back at Hunith's little house, sitting just outside in the garden. His eyes went to the neatly weeded flowerbeds, edged with brick, the espaliered pear trees, and then to the quince trees at the other end of the warm, green space. "It must be difficult without Merlin…or someone…to help you."

Merlin had gone down to the end of the garden to clear away some small branches and large twigs that had come down during the last rainstorm, over a week earlier.

"No, I manage nicely on my own," Hunith replied, placidly. "A young man from a gardener's agency comes every now and then to do the pruning, on the branches I can't reach. The rest isn't difficult, it simply takes time. Merlin used to help me with the vegetables, though, he's always been very good with his hands."

"He's doing excellent work in the Conservation Department," Arthur murmured. "Gaius says he's one of the best he's ever seen. Best conservators, that is. He's…he's been looking after things very nicely."

"Dear Gaius," said Hunith fondly. "I've spoken with him several times during the past year. He's kept me informed about Merlin's progress, since Merlin doesn't see fit to tell me much of anything."

Now seemed to be the right moment to get down to things. "Merlin's...perhaps Merlin told you?" Arthur began, as close to stammering as he had ever been. "He's...we're sharing my flat in New York. There's plenty of space, and..."

Hunith glanced at him musingly, and then looked away, but it was obvious that she was listening attentively.

"...and we...we get on very well. He's...I've never known anyone like him." That was true. He had many friends (or at least people who called themselves friends), he had had quite a few lovers, but never anybody like Merlin, who was friend and lover both, not to mention a professional colleague. Whose banter both frustrated and entertained him. Whose sharp intelligence seemed so at odds with his absent-minded, coltish awkwardness. Whose stubborness matched his own. Whose smiles - whether the charming, open grin he offered to the world, or the secret little curve of the lips he sometimes showed to Arthur - were like nobody else's. And ah! Merlin in his arms, whether beneath him or above him, that silky, creamy skin, and that remarkable touch!

They were watching Merlin walk across the bottom of the garden, partly hidden by rosebushes. There was a sudden thump, as he tripped over a fallen branch or errant root and disappeared with a muffled exclamation. A moment later, he was up and making his way along the uneven ground as though nothing had happened.

Arthur turned his head so that his eyes met Hunith's, and they both smiled.

"When Merlin was little," Hunith said pensively. "He was like that; forever tripping over furniture, knocking things over, so absent minded. But incredibly focused when it came to any project he was working on. In that regard, he was always careful and precise. Such clever hands; the way he could put things together. Like magic."

"He's like that now," Arthur replied. "It's remarkable, the...the contrast."

"Yes," she murmured. "When he was a child, and so bright, such uncanny intuition, but so clumsy...I was always there to watch him. When he grew up, grew away, went off to university, I worried. What if he knocks over one of his lecturers? What if he goes headfirst into the Cam? And then in London, at the Courtauld, and now in New York...Of course no mother wants to think that her child could be hurt."

"I won't let anything hurt him, Hunith," Arthur said, very low. "That is, I'll do my best."

Hunith looked at him, a long, clear look, and then she smiled again.

"I believe you mean it," she said, finally, and put one strong, capable hand lightly on his arm. "I expect you'll look after each other."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The three dined together in Hunith's kitchen, perhaps the roomiest chamber in her little house. She had made noises about setting the table in the tiny dining room, but Arthur said no, she mustn't stand on ceremony, he wouldn't have it. Merlin stood in the background, rolling his eyes.

The evening meal was simple: roasted chicken, potatoes, sliced cucumbers from the garden, and fruit salad. Arthur complimented Hunith on her cooking, and Merlin whispered to him that he was fortunate it hadn't been breakfast, because his mother's oatmeal porridge left a great deal to be desired.

They stood in front of the house for a several minutes, watching the sun go down, before Arthur and Merlin headed back to the inn. It was surprisingly cool and damp with the sunlight gone. Arthur had thrown a grey sweatshirt over his football jersey, and Merlin had rummaged in his old room and replaced his short-sleeved tee with a long-sleeved cotton shirt, complete with a proper collar, brick-red in color and buttoned down the front.

As they walked into the front hall, the proprietor's wife waved them down.

"A fax came for you, sir, while you were out," she announced, handing a sheaf of papers over to Arthur, her eyes bright with awe. The auburn-haired daughter was skulking behind the front desk again, her eyes darting avidly back and forth between the blond guest and the dark haired one, her right hand playing idly with the keypad on her mobile phone.

"You see?" Merlin said in a loud whisper. "She's notifying the troops."

"Shhhh!" was the reply as the girl continued to stare at them. She wasn't licking her lips, Merlin thought, but she might as well, from the hungry expression in her heavily mascara-ed eyes.

Arthur thanked the proprietress and held the pages of the fax under the closest lamp, to read them.

"What's that?" Merlin asked, trying to peer over his shoulder. "Can't see. It's very smudgy."

Arthur bumped his head against the glass lampshade and muttered something that sounded like "Bugrit."

"May the gods have mercy," he said, finally. "It's from Morgana. The Institute just received an email from Sigan, with a digital image of his tapestry."

They examined the image under the lamp. The tapestry was wide, with seven standing figures against a flat pattern of scattered flowers, a typical _mille-fleurs_ background. It was difficult to make out any details in the smudged and grainy fax, but the three central figures were obviously ladies, richly clad and bejeweled. The flanking figures appeared to be gentleman courtiers, and at least one seemed to be wearing armor.

"Very nice," said Merlin, squinting at the paper. "I'll have to talk to Gwen about this. Care to hazard a guess about the subject matter?"

"My guess is that the ladies are the Three Graces, or something along those lines," Arthur replied, wrinkling his brow. "Something mythological."

There was a rumbling sound behind them, and they turned to see a young woman wheeling her luggage to the front door, whilst a young man trailed behind her with a rucksack.

"Oh look," said Arthur pleasantly. "Most of the other guests are leaving."

"Erm," his conservator mumbled, watching as couples and families bundled belongings into their cars and settled their accounts at the front desk.

"Our hallway will be quite empty," Arthur went on, looking at his watch. "Shall we go upstairs?"

The hallway on the floor above was quiet, and most of the doors were partly open, revealing empty rooms, some with beds already stripped of their linen. "Good," said Arthur conversationally, and yanked Merlin into his bedroom without a word of warning.

"Arthur," Merlin managed to say as Arthur fastened the lock and turned to him. "What in blazes are you-"

"Your challenge, Merlin," Arthur murmured a few minutes later. "You told me patience wasn't one of my virtues, remember? Perhaps now's the time To…Prove…You…Wrong."

"What's…what are you…" said Merlin, astonished, but Arthur only chuckled darkly as he slowly unfastened the top button of Merlin's shirt. A minute later, he slowly unfastened the next one, and a minute after that the next, pausing in between to run his lips over the pale skin that was being revealed, bit by bit. It took a long time to unbutton the shirt completely, after which Arthur slowly slid it off Merlin's arms, dropped it to the floor, and got to work on the fastening of his jeans.

"You see," he whispered, kicking the shirt away. "Buttons still attached."

"I hate you," Merlin said nearly a half hour later, by which time he was lying flat on his back, with Arthur bending over him, but not applying his full weight, and they still hadn't... "You're really, really evil."

"No, I'm not," replied Arthur soothingly, rolling them over. "I'm simply patient. Very, very patient. And I can be more patient still." The tip of one finger stroked the sensitive skin on the inside of Merlin's elbow, light as a feather. Several minutes later, that same finger brushed the even more sensitive skin behind his knee, and on the inside of his thigh.

"You…you're unspeakable...unspeakably..." said Merlin, panting, when Arthur let him talk again, aghast to hear that the tone of his voice was beginning to sound very much like a whimper. He was nearly delirious by this time, but determined not to beg, no, no, not ever…

"_Mer_lin," Arthur whispered urgently, fitting Merlin more closely against him, but his voice did not sound anything like a whimper, and although it was obvious that he was as impassioned and aroused as he had ever been, it was also clear that he had no intention of bringing things to a close just yet.

It was even _later_, and Merlin had lost nearly all of his reserves of willpower, and was moaning feebly into Arthur's shoulder, when Arthur brought them both off, spectacularly, and they collapsed into a trembling heap, practically sobbing for breath.

"You're a right bastard," Merlin mumbled before he fell asleep, with the vague satisfaction of having maintained his sanity throughout, at least in part. "Don't think I'm not going to pay you back."

"That's what I'm hoping for," came the exhausted but triumphant reply as Arthur pulled the bedclothes up around them and tucked them in. "I look forward to it. Just not tonight."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Halcyon Days**

The next few days were calm and sunny, and Arthur, full of energy as usual, took advantage of the weather to go on long, exploratory walks. Sometimes Merlin went with him, amused to notice that more and more of the local girls seemed to be hanging about in front of the inn every morning when they emerged.

"Some friends have phoned me to ask why their daughters are so curious about this person my son's befriended," Hunith said, smiling, one afternoon as they took tea at the Blue Ribbon. "Pretty soon _they'll_ be spending time in front of the inn as well. They're curious. Is he really such a dish, and is he from some posh family in the UK or in the States, and if he's from the States, why doesn't he have an American accent? So if you see a group of middle aged ladies..."

Merlin snorted and Arthur poked him in the ribs with his elbow.

"The girls have been quite complimentary about _you_ as well," Hunith continued, turning to her son. "According to Mrs Power - you remember her, Merlin - they've been saying they had no idea you would turn out to be so nice looking, and so adorable, and they want to take you home and cuddle you like a teddy bear."

"A very bony teddy bear," Arthur remarked under his breath as Hunith turned to speak to a passing acquaintance. "Those girls have no idea what an uncomfortable pillow you make."

"But with brains rather than brawn," Merlin replied smugly.

"I have brains _and_ brawn," retorted Arthur, grinning even more smugly. "And don't you forget it."

"Am I likely to?" was the response. "You won't let me. Stop showing those pointy, vampire teeth. You'll frighten off all of those girls who are so curious about you."

"No way," said Arthur, still grinning. "Vampires are very fashionable these days."

A new group of tourists had moved into the inn, and Arthur and Merlin had returned to their separate rooms. This gave Merlin time to catch up on his sleep, and Arthur spent the hour or so before midnight each evening writing obnoxious emails to Morgana on his Blackberry.

She had emailed him back:

_Stepbrother dear, you obviously have _**_time on your hands_**_ or you wouldn't be sending me those ridiculous messages. What happened, did the inn put you in two separate rooms? Gwen's bridal shower is this Saturday, and then I'll be preparing for my London visit. We'll only be there for three days, a long weekend. Yes, I'm bringing Leon. No, I'm not telling Uther. If you tell him, I will curse you for all eternity. The new armor installation in Gallery 3 is a huge hit, so Lance is chuffed. Please give Mordred a hug from me and tell him I'm looking forward to seeing him. Give my love to Merlin and tell him I agree with everything he decides to do, and with nothing you may have to say. _

Arthur had no intention of giving Mordred a hug, as fond as he was of his little half-brother. He knew perfectly well that if he did so, Mordred, who didn't care for hugs (except from his mother, and occasionally Morgana), would treat him to one of his icy glares, and possibly not speak to him for the rest of the day.

On a more serious note, an email came from Gaius, arriving on Arthur's Blackberry, as Merlin had refused to buy one.

_Dear Arthur and Merlin, I hope you're enjoying your stay in the country. Weather is hellish in New York. Uther has emailed me asking where you are; I feigned ignorance and merely said I thought you were doing some sort of driving tour - a white lie at best. Cornelius Sigan sent a photo of his tapestry in an email attatchment, and I had Gwen take a look at the tiff or cliff or whatever you call them. It's an extremely fine piece, and as I imagine that Sigan will show it to you in person, I look forward to hearing your verdict. Give my dear love to Hunith, and all my best wishes. Gaius._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I suppose we should be thinking about a wedding present for Gwen and Lance," Arthur said, chewing absently on his Ray-Ban aviators.

"Mmm." Merlin replied. He was lying on the grass on the shore of the lake just beyond the edge of town. Even Arthur, hardcore city dweller that he was, had to admit that there was something idyllic about this place. The countryside was green and lush, there weren't any mosquitoes worth mentioning, and the townspeople - apart from their intense curiosity about him - were friendly enough. Merlin still joked about how Arthur probably had expected shuffling village idiots muttering "Aye, 'tes true. We mun go to church and pray for the soul of Hunith's boy, for takin up with tha' Pendragon fellow."

"We can scout out some antiques at Mrs Power's little shop," Merlin was mumbling, half asleep. Several days of eating large meals, baked goods, and even the occasional scoop of clotted cream (in which he rarely but carefully indulged, in spite of his lactose intolerance) hadn't made an iota of difference to his slender frame. If anything, he looked even thinner, but Arthur noted his brittle grace as he twisted around in his grassy nest, the clarity of his finely drawn profile.

"Tempting as your position is," Arthur murmured, still eyeing his junior conservator, "I daren't lay a hand on you for fear some local busybody will come tearing through the undergrowth at a crucial moment. On the other hand, why deprive Ealdor of enough gossip to last the rest of the year?"

"Does Ealdor _need_ a year's worth of gossip?" Merlin asked skeptically.

"Apparently, as people wouldn't be staring at us in the street otherwise," was Arthur's curt reply.

Merlin gave a muffled laugh and turned over onto his back, flinging one arm over his eyes to keep out the sun. "Speaking of gossip," he said quietly, "remind me to stop in and visit Will's parents. His mum's lovely, but she's the biggest gossip in town. I'm surprised she isn't out here in the woods with a camera and her ancient pair of opera glasses."

"Right; shall I come with you?" Arthur asked, setting down the handbook from the Historical Society. As he watched Merlin squirm in an effort to find a comfortable spot, it occurred to him that in fewer than three days they'd be in London, under Uther's watchful eye, and they certainly wouldn't be able to spend any nights together there. They had spent the past two in separate rooms, and although Merlin quipped that he was finally regaining the ability to walk properly, Arthur didn't think that he would be able to stand much more of this enforced celibacy. Although he had always had a strong sex drive, in the past it had never been a hardship to go without for months at a time, if he was between partners. With Merlin in his vicinity, however, it was difficult for him not to think about beds and rumpled sheets and heat, passion-dampened skin, black lashes hovering over blue eyes darkened with a mixture of desire and pleasure, a delicate sheen of sweat in the hollow of a long, boyish throat. Not to mention what a pair of pale, slim hands and a pink, swollen mouth could do to _him_.

Merlin interrupted his erotic reverie with a tiresomely practical suggestion.

"Perhaps we should buy something to take to London, for your...your father," he mumured, eyes closed. To himself, he thought Uther might like no better gift than to hear that Merlin Emrys had volunteered to join a six-month expedition to the North Pole.

"It's not easy to buy things for him," Arthur said, almost fretfully. "What do you buy for the man who has everything?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You must be so looking forward to seeing your father in London," Hunith said to Arthur the following evening. "Will your stepsister be joining you? I've seen her picture; what a lovely girl she is."

"Yes, I suppose she is," Arthur said in a pained voice. "I believe she'll be coming to London from New York for a weekend."

"It should be fun," Merlin added with a look of profound innocence. "I can't wait. Morgana must have missed you, Arthur. The two of you get on so beautifully. It's a pleasure to watch them working in harmony," he added loudly as Hunith stood up to refill their coffee cups.

"The list of punishable offenses you've committed is getting longer and longer," Arthur whispered. "Just a word of warning."

This stimulating exchange was interrupted by Hunith, who deposited a massive Lady Baltimore cake in the center of the table, and cut the largest slice for Arthur, followed by another generous portion for her son. Merlin gave Arthur a deliberately angelic smile before tucking into his.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Look what I found," Merlin said proudly, placing a large box on Arthur's bed.

He had knocked on Arthur's door that morning, gone down to breakfast with him, and then disappeared down the street, saying he wanted to spend an hour or so with Will's parents and then look into some of the local shops. The box was wrapped in plain brown paper; Merlin unwrapped it, opened the lid of the box, and pointed happily. Arthur tore his eyes away from the _bed_ and looked on as Merlin lifted out a fluted porcelain bowl, complete with lid and a pair of handles, pure white and beautifully simple except for the delicate gilding that scrolled around the rim of the bowl, the foot, and the edge of the lid.

"It's Georgian," he said, beaming and looking so pleased with himself that Arthur had to stifle a smile. "Found it in Mrs Power's little antique shop. I think Gwen will like it. I don't know Lance's taste though; what's your opinion?"

Arthur lifted the lid and looked inside the bowl, in the bottom of which was a small motif of a crossed sword and mace.

"He'll love it," he replied dryly. "That ought to be his family crest. Bravo, Merlin. That was a clever find."

"I think it'll fit in my luggage," Merlin said thoughtfully. "That reminds me; shouldn't we pack this afternoon?" In all honesty, he wasn't sorry to be leaving, as much as he had enjoyed spending time with his mother. Arthur had been surprisingly obliging about staying in Ealdor - for all of his restless energy - but each day it was becoming more and more obvious that this kind of placid country life was not for him.

"Yes, we ought to," Arthur said absently. Tomorrow night they would be in London, condemned to separate bedrooms for a little more than a week. "Pack, that is. How many guests are still on this floor?"

"Every room's full," Merlin replied, looking at Arthur from the corner of his eye. "Although I have no idea why tourists would want to come here when they could be off in the Cotswolds or something, instead."

Arthur seemed a little downcast, but he said nothing further on the subject. They went down to dinner at the restaurant, argued mildly about which route to take to London, and telephoned Hunith to let her know that they would be stopping by her house for brunch before leaving Ealdor the next morning. Then they went back to their rooms, Merlin humming cheerfully, Arthur looking decidedly out of sorts, and set to work on their packing.

By the time Arthur was in bed, his luggage was zipped up and travel-ready, his wallet, room key, and car keys on the nightstand, and the shirt he planned to wear to London was hanging on the front of the wardrobe door. The breeze blowing the lace curtains of the bedside window was actually chilly, but Arthur made no move to close the heavier outer drapes. He was listlessly watching a bar of moonlight progress along the floor when his door creaked open, and Merlin slipped inside.

"You left your door unlocked," he whispered before dropping his clothes and sliding soundlessly into Arthur's bed. "How careless, Mr Assistant Director."

"You," Arthur whispered back as they rolled into each other's arms, skin creating gentle friction against skin, "are the most infuriating tease in all creation. Have you always been like this?"

"Or course not," Merlin said frowning, sitting up halfway. "Your prattishness brings out the worst in me." He put both hands on Arthur's shoulders, and Arthur let himself be pushed onto his back. The long, cool weight of Merlin on top of him made him close his eyes, waiting to feel that thin, hard body take on warmth from his own.

"The rooms really are all booked," Merlin said faintly against Arthur's ear, his lips just brushing the lobe. "We'll have to be very quiet. I mean, extremely quiet."

Arthur pressed his forefinger against Merlin's mouth.

"Feast before famine," he murmured, thinking about London. He felt, rather than saw, Merlin smile, before he slid one hand into that spiky mop of black hair and pulled him down for kissing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: He Who Must Not Be Named**

Arthur navigated the London traffic with respect and a firm hand, as Merlin sat beside him saying little.

They had left Ealdor shortly before midday, after a farewell brunch with Hunith. Merlin had prayed that she wouldn't cry when they drove off, and she hadn't, but she had kissed him and given him a fierce hug, as though she was afraid to let him go. She had given Arthur a hug as well, to Merlin's embarrassment, and had stood by the car as they checked to see that they had everything in order and then buckled themselves in.

"Take care of yourself, darling," she had said to Merlin, her eyes shining and lips tightly pressed together.

"I'll look after him," Arthur said, and Merlin turned red and then pale with indignation.

"I can look after myself, thanks," he snorted, but both Arthur and Hunith laughed. After a moment, Merlin had to give a wry grin, remembering how he had nearly fallen down the stairs that morning, slow and still drowsy, and how Arthur had caught him by the arm with an exaggerated groan of exasperation. This made him remember, too, how he had kissed Arthur awake, earlier, and how Arthur had…erm, with his hand, in response. His own hand had gone where Arthur wanted it to go, and…what luck they had made it downstairs to breakfast on time.

It had rained a little during the night, and the countryside looked fresh, cleanswept, and pretty as they drove through it. Three hours later, they were fighting traffic in the London suburbs, and the view beyond the windshield consisted mostly of irate drivers, street signs, and car exhaust.

By the time they were nearing Kensington, Arthur had lapsed into a kind of chilly silence.

"I'm sure it won't be so bad," Merlin ventured, and Arthur scowled.

"I have no intention of getting into a fight with Father, at least not until breakfast tomorrow," he replied brusquely.

"Well...I don't know," Merlin said seriously, looking at Arthur sideways. "Do _not_ force the battle."

"Yes, sire!" replied Arthur in a hearty voice, but moments later his uncommunicative scowl reappeared, and Merlin could see that his hands were tense on the steering wheel.

Obnoxiousness was clearly the only way to break the tension, so...

"Are you nervous?" Merlin asked, because he knew that Arthur would find this either distracting or infuriating.

"I don't _get_ nervous," Arthur said flatly.

"Really? I thought everybody got ner-"

"Will you _shut up_!" Arthur shouted over the noise of the traffic, and spent the next several minutes mumbling under his breath about the utter lunacy of junior conservators as he dodged hordes of pedestrians and numerous bad drivers. Merlin simply sat quietly, satisfied to see Arthur jolted out of his self-absorbed, dour silence, and hoping that You-Know-Who would be in a good mood when they finally arrived.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Uther's temporary residence in Earls Terrace, Kensington, was an imposing affair, its completely up-to-date, twenty-first century interior hidden behind a solemn Georgian facade. (According to Arthur, the actual family home near Belgrave Square was much nicer, more elegant but warm and _homier._) This, however, was just the sort of house Merlin had imagined for the man he had come to think of as He Who Must Not Be Named. (Uther, to his way of thinking, was far scarier than Lord Voldemort could ever be.) Having parked the car, humped the luggage up the few steps to the front door, and looked each other over - Arthur gestured to Merlin to smooth his hair down, and Merlin told Arthur that his collar was twisted - they rang the bell and waited.

"It'll be okay, Merlin," Arthur said quietly. "I'm sure Father will be civil to you. If he isn't...he'll have to answer to me."

Seconds laer the door was flung wide; Uther's second wife, Elaine, was standing just inside. Mother of Morgana (by her first husband, the deceased Gorlois), mother of Mordred (by Uther). Arthur, who felt affection for her, had warned Merlin that she was a bit of an airhead, but she was charming, soft, and pretty, with fluffy blonde hair, and the first thing she did was to fling her arms around her stepson's neck and kiss him on both cheeks. For a moment it looked as though she would kiss Merlin as well, but Uther, emerging from the shadows of the front hall, cleared his throat loudly, and she shook his hand warmly instead. Then Mordred materialized, as if from nowhere, and stepped calmly in front of his father.

Arthur was grateful, very grateful indeed a moment later, that Mordred was there, because his presence made things easier. Uther shook hands with Merlin, his manner affable but slightly reserved, before clapping his son solidly on the back. Arthur punched Mordred on the shoulder in a brotherly fashion. Mordred gave him a look, as if to say "What is this silly macho behavior?" and punched back, knocking Arthur slightly off balance. He then gravely shook hands with Merlin, his face alight with one of his rare smiles, and when the two of them began to talk, it was as one adult to another. Uther inquired about the traffic, and Elaine asked whether they were hungry, so by the time all of the bags and suitcases were sitting in the hall, the conversation among them was relatively easy and relaxed.

Arthur had been given a room two doors away from Uther's, and Merlin's, as had been expected, was as far away from his as possible, and across the hall from Mordred's. Back downstairs in the parlour - it was really too rigidly elegant to be called a sitting room - Uther's housekeeper brought in tea. Elaine poured out, sitting on a cream-colored ottoman at the foot of Uther's chair, and Mordred handed around tea cakes and biscuits with his usual glacial calm. Merlin's gaze met Arthur's, and he gave a little smile before Uther interrupted their eye play to ask him how his work on the Institute's manuscripts was going.

"It's going well, thanks," said Merlin politely, wondering what sort of report He Who Must Not Be Named had received from Aredian. Thankfully, Uther then turned to Arthur to inquire about Morgana and the new Institute handbook she and Gaius were writing, so Merlin turned his attention to Mordred. For the next half hour, he listened to the boy's chatter about particle physics, the dullness of school, how classes were too easy for him, whether art conservation might be a good choice for a career instead of science, and how everybody thought he was too young to learn how to do thermoluminescence testing on works of art.

"I've something to show you," Mordred finally said to Arthur, as they finished their tea and stood up. "It's in my room; come on, then."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mordred's bedroom was almost unnaturally tidy. Arthur remembered Mordred as a small child of five, putting his toys neatly in his toychest and piling his books into neatly squared heaps, or simply lining them up (according to size) on his bookshelf. He had been reading at age two, counting and doing simple sums even earlier. Now, Mordred's walls were bare of the usual posters and stickers one would expect to see in a room belonging to a child his age; his bookshelves were still neat, his floor uncluttered. The only clutter Arthur could see was on a worktable at one end of the room, where bits and pieces of electronic equipment littered the surface. The empty shell of a clock radio, two television remote control wands, and a deconstructed mobile phone were among the objects Arthur was able to recognize.

"So," said Arthur in the jolliest manner that he could muster under the circumstances. "What is this mysterious object you've made for me?"

"For you and Merlin," Mordred corrected him in his precise little voice. For a moment Arthur wanted to laugh, but he knew Mordred would not appreciate that in the least. So he mastered the impulse, and said calmly, "That's right, for myself and Merlin. Well, what is it?"

"It's here," Mordred murmured, gesturing at something that looked like a baby monitor, or a miniature laptop computer, with a small screen and even smaller attached speaker.

"Ah," said Arthur, at a loss for words because he had no notion of what it was. "Splendid. What…what is it?"

"I made it myself," Mordred said, pointing at the pieces of circuitry lying all over the table. "I used some of the circuits from Cousin Galahad's old baby monitor, and part of that alarm clock, there, and some bits from other things…the remote control from a broken television and a motion sensor from the old alarm system in the Belgravia house, and oh, I can't remember all of it. It's a Father Detector."

"A what?" asked his older half-brother, completely astonished.

Mordred's eyes, blue-grey in his pale little face, showed his surprise at how thick an adult could be. "A Father Detector. Look, you can use it when Father goes out. I've connected this to the viewer downstairs, you know, the one that let's you see who's at the door, in case it's a stranger. You'll be able to see on the monitor if Father's come home. It should give you enough time."

"Give me enough time…Mordred, give me enough time for what?"

"I've also hooked up a motion sensor by Father's bedroom. So you can tell if he's coming out of his room at night. That'll give you less time, since you're only two doors away, but it's a warning of some sort."

"Enough time for…? A warning about…? M-Mordred, could you explain this to me, please. As though I were, uh, younger than you?"

"Father told Mum to put Merlin in the room across from mine. But I think you would like him to be in yours. So if you want him in your room, when Father's out, you'll need a warning system. To let you know when Father's back."

Mordred delivered this explanation in a patient voice, as matter-of-factly as if he was trying to show Arthur how to play the latest electronic game on a computer or Wii.

Arthur sat down hard on Mordred's desk chair.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur expected Merlin to be shocked when he related this exchange to him, but Merlin only smiled and raised his eyebrows.

"Merlin," Arthur almost sputtered. "He's only...he's barely eleven yet! What can he be thinking?"

"For pity's sake, Arthur," Merlin replied calmly. "If he's like every other boy his age, he already knows about pretty much everything. To do with sex, I mean. Without the actual experience, of course. What with Wiki stuff, Youtube, and Youporn, these days youngsters can find out about anything you'd care to name."

"But _Merlin_," Arthur nearly shouted. "What does he think that we...that you and I..."

"On the other hand," Merlin continued, raking one hand through his hair until it stood on end like a hedgehog's bristles, "Mordred may have no idea. About what we, erm, do. He's a strange mixture of genius and innocence, that boy, and he doesn't seem to have much sexual curiosity. Perhaps he thinks that when we get into bed together we talk about particle physics."

"That's not funny, Merlin, you idiot," Arthur said sourly. "I'd clout you one, but I'd have to hold back, 'cause you're only tiny."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I'm a lot stronger than I look, as I've said before," he murmured. "And I'm _taller_ than you are, much as you don't like to hear it. Never mind, though. I'll never expect you to discuss particle physics in bed."

"Not funny!" snapped Arthur, glaring at his incorrigible conservator, but Merlin could see that one corner of his mouth was twitching upward.

"Yes it is," Merlin replied, giving Arthur the particular look, from beneath his eyelashes, that had never failed yet. "_You_ just don't happen to see the humor in it. Didn't your stepmum say dinner was at eight? We had better go downstairs."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Dinner at Uther's**

"It's just a little dinner party, tomorrow night," Uther had said, an hour or so after they arrived, and now that it was tomorrow there was really no getting away from it.

Arthur had slept surprisingly well – in all likelihood as the result of fatigue and an afternoon of fighting traffic on the way to London – but he missed Merlin's presence in his bed. True, in Ealdor they had slept apart for several nights, but the few nights they had managed to spend together had made up for it. Here, in Uther's residence, it was unlikely that they would be able to indulge in anything similar, even with Mordred's "Father Detector" sitting on Arthur's bedside table.

This was frustrating, not just because of the (absence of) sex, but because - although he typically refused to mention it to Merlin - he enjoyed waking up with his junior conservator. Early mornings in bed with Merlin were rather unique, not to mention entertaining. Merlin slept like a child, deeply and contentedly, but he squirmed and wriggled like a child as well, and there were times when Arthur awoke to find himself completely entangled in long legs, a hand curled loosely on his chest, a tousled mop of hair tickling him under the chin, or on his shoulder, or on his stomach. Upon being wakened, Merlin would mumble something incoherent, and then flop over onto his front with a huge wallop, shaking the mattress and burying his face in the pillows. Propped up on one elbow, Arthur would watch with amusement as Merlin went from drowsy clumsiness to complete wakefulness, a process that sometimes needed to be speeded along with a prodding in the ribs or pulling of that short, silky mess of dark hair. When his sleep-clouded vision finally cleared and he looked at Arthur with alert blue eyes and a reproachful expression, it was not uncommon for Arthur to slide one arm around him and caress him gently to full arousal. Sometimes, though, they would simply lie still and stare at each other until one or the other broke down with laughter. After which they might crawl out of bed, still sniggering, and throw pillows or clothing in each other's direction, like a couple of schoolboys at summer camp. Or simply get up, shower and shave (muttering the most absurd insults throughout), and race to the kitchen for that first, crucial, cup of morning coffee, which they drank whilst listening to their next door neighbor, a soprano at the Metropolitan Opera, practice her scales.

Here in London, the morning routine was very different. No operatic wake-up music. No Merlin in his bed. Breakfast in Uther's dining room was a prolonged affair involving several different selections of food, all served on beautiful blue-and-white porcelain plates, Chinese export-ware. Elaine chattered about the London weather, asked about life in New York, and questioned both Arthur and Merlin about Morgana's various activities. Mordred's fascination with Merlin seemed to have extended to Merlin's eating habits, and rather than his usual bowl of sugary breakfast cereal, poached egg, and toast soldiers slathered with jam, he opted to have – like Merlin – porridge, a banana, and toast with peanut butter. Uther drank two cups of black coffee and stared at his son and his son's conservator as though they were an experiment under the viewer of a microscope.

Guests at the little dinner party, he informed them, would be Aredian, Cornelius Sigan, and Cornelius Sigan's (trophy) wife Enid. Dress would be semi-formal. He cast a doubtful eye over Merlin's tee shirt. Earlier, he had looked askance at the Pendragon signet ring on Merlin's right hand, but it seemed clear that he was not ready to mention it, at least, not yet.

"But Aredian told me he wouldn't be in the city during our visit," Merlin ventured to say. "He said he was sorry he would, erm, miss us."

"I was able to change his mind," Uther replied, as though this was a matter of course. "He's known Cornelius for years, so he was pleased to re-arrange his schedule."

"Great," said Arthur, his tone of voice implying that it was definitely _not_ great. "I need to check emails now, Father, so if you'd excuse me for half an hour or so…Merlin, you'd better check yours as well. Make certain Lord Moldywart's appendages haven't fallen off in your absence."

Mordred actually _laughed_; Uther looked mildly shocked by this disrespectful reference to a work of art, and Elaine looked at all of them with a completely clueless expression in her pretty blue eyes.

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Arthur had his trusty Blackberry, but Merlin requested the use of the computer in Uther's library to access any emails people might have sent to him during the previous week. There were a few cheery ones from Gwen, one, from Gaius, that was filled with fatherly admonitions, and another from Will that made him sit up and take notice.

_Dear Merlin, you won't recognize the place when you come back, as we are taking advantage of his lordship's absence to get drunk, party every day, redecorate the entrance hall with balloons and inflated condoms, and paint smiley faces on all the sculptures. JUST JOKING! Everybody's curious about Sigan's bloody tapestry, you'd think it was the Holy Grail the way Gwen's been nattering on about it. We actually got a letter from that ass Aredian, congratulating the Conservation Department on its treatment of Lord Moldywart. Can you believe it? I mean, I know he's got this mile high reputation, and I know he's excellent with metalwork, ceramics, and stone, but I don't think he knows fuck all about wooden sculpture. Anyway, he said he'd spoken to Sigan about you, so watch out. Mum was really pleased to see you, thanks for stopping in to visit her. Enjoy your time in London, and don't let his royal highness tire you out, nudge nudge, wink wink. Morgana, Gwen, Gaius, Gwen, Leon, and everybody else send greetings. So behave yourself, old cock, and don't do anything you shouldn't. Will._

Merlin was not particularly surprised to hear that the Institute staff was rabidly curious about Cornelius Sigan's tapestry, and it occurred to him that the collector had been teasing them with hints of this possible donation, using the work of art like a piece of candy dangling tantalizingly on the end of a string. What made him nervous was Aredian having made a point of mentioning him to Sigan. Why discuss the Institute's junior paper conservator with the man? Gwen, not Merlin Emrys, was the textiles and tapestry conservator.

"Anything interesting?" Arthur asked, coming into the room, behind him. Merlin shook his head, still reading, but sensing Arthur's glance on the back of his neck. Arthur _was_, in fact, staring at the milky pallor of his nape beneath tendrils of black hair, and thinking that if they were at home, he could walk up behind his young conservator, lean down and put his lips to that tender skin. He could even bite him, softly at first, and then a little harder…

"Ow," said Merlin, almost as though Arthur _had_ bitten him. "Why are all the chairs in this room so uncomfortable? Will says they're going to trash the Institute whilst we're away."

"They wouldn't dare," Arthur responded, looking curiously at the screen. "Unless they're willing to face the Wrath of Pendragon."

"This dinner," his conservator murmured, exiting from his email, "should be interesting. I finally get to meet the mysterious Mr Sigan."

"Right," said Arthur, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "How very exciting. Aren't you happy you brought your Brooks Brothers suit? If you appeared at the table in your usual kit, you'd be on the waiting list for the executioner's ax."

"I don't see how a suit is going to make everything better," Merlin snorted. "But if Aredian decides to murder his competition - meaning me - I suppose I could throw my _cufflinks_ at him in self defense." He raised one eyebrow, a la Gaius. "You've probably misplaced _yours_, as usual."

"Merlin," Arthur snapped with mock surprise. "Who said anything about throwing cufflinks? And no, I haven't misplaced mine. I only do that when you're in my immediate vicinity. You'll have to throttle him with your tie."

"I'm praying for a food fight," Merlin said mildly. "That would liven things up. I'd like to see the great Aredian with a faceful of pudding."

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"What have _you_ got against Aredian, Merlin?" Arthur asked as they stood in front of a mirror in the upstairs hallway, adjusting ties and straightening collars. "You only met him for, what was it, an hour or so."

"I get tired of being labeled 'the boy' by these venerable, grey-haired senior conservators," Merlin replied blithely. "I don't have anything against him, really, but it's irritating to hear yourself referred to as a boy and a pretty thing by somebody who obviously thinks you're little more than Arthur Pendragon's flavor of the week."

"Did he actually call you that?" Arthur said in astonishment, chuckling. Merlin was battling one of his cufflinks, as usual, and Arthur reached out and adjusted them both for him. A pretty thing indeed! If only Uther wouldn't spend quite so much time at home...it might be interesting to see whether Mordred's Father Detector actually worked.

"Not exactly," Merlin was saying, with a little grin. "By the way, your stepmother was very kind and assured me that there would be a vegetarian dish for me. She ordered lamb with mint sauce for the rest of you, including Aredian - who, according to her, has a fondness for sauteed frog's legs."

"Punctual, I see," came Uther's voice from the other end of the hall. "Shall we go downstairs?"

"I'm always punctual," Arthur replied, truthfully. He had been well-trained in punctuality, by his father, from early childhood. Being on time was for him nearly second nature.

Uther was giving both of them what Arthur could only describe as an assessing look, as though he was examining a pair of horses, or, more appropriately, a pair of medieval or Renaissance sculptures. Turning his head slightly, he saw himself and Merlin reflected in the enormous, gilt-framed mirror, and he could see what Uther was staring at.

What his father was eyeing would have made an attractive photograph, or an even more attractive painting by an eighteenth-century Neoclassical artist. Two young men, of about the same height (Merlin was _only a fraction_ taller than he was, Arthur reassured himself), one fair, one black-haired, one athletically built, one extremely slim. Both dressed in dark evening clothes. Both had been called, by various people, beautiful. (Arthur winced at the word, but he had heard it applied to himself more times than he could count, and he himself applied it –although never out loud – to Merlin.) As far as beauty was concerned, Merlin might be an acquired taste; he was too thin for traditional good looks, his face too narrow and angular to fit the standards of male beauty established by classical sculptors or painters, but Arthur had to admit that he had always considered his junior conservator wonderful to look at. Merlin's peculiar physical charm lay as much in his coltish, linear grace as in the pink fullness of his lips and the changeable blue of his eyes, the startling sweep of his cheekbones, and the contrast between his dark hair and stereotypically pale Celtic complexion.

His father might not approve of any relationship between himself and Merlin other than a platonic one, but surely he had the Pendragon eye for beauty, even offbeat beauty. Surely he must understand his son's appreciation of young Mr Emrys on a visual as well as a professional level?

Or…perhaps not.

"Shall we go downstairs?" Uther asked again, and headed for the stairway. "Cornelius rang up an hour ago. He said he would be a few minutes late, but that he was looking forward to meeting you again, Arthur, after so many years."

Arthur gave Merlin a wry look and tugged lightly at his sleeve behind his father's back.

"I'm sure he'll be pleased by the sight of you in your Armani suit," Merlin whispered, trying to keep a straight face.

"The last time he saw me," Arthur muttered, "I must have been sixteen. I was wearing jeans and my old, red Thriller jacket."

"No!" whispered Merlin delightedly. "You're joking! You had a Thriller _jacket_? When_ I _was twelve or so I was dying to get my hands on one of those."

"I had a modified version," said Arthur, smiling broadly for the first time that evening. "I'm going to search it out, and see if it still fits. If it does, I'll put it on, and you can run your hands all over it. After which I will run my hands all over you."

"Shhh!" hissed Merlin warningly, as Uther turned his head and gave them a questioning look. Shrugging his shoulders, Arthur started down the stairs with Merlin tagging along behind him, his mind filled with an image of the Institute's Assistant Director shrugging himself out of a crimson Thriller jacket.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: The Toad and the Raven**

The renowned conservator Aredian looked nothing like a toad. He was as grey and distinguished as Merlin remembered, calm and at ease in his dark evening clothes. Why Merlin associated him with a croaking amphibian he had no idea. Perhaps it was because Elaine had said, earlier, that he was fond of sauteed frog's legs, but now he could not get the image of Aredian with his mouth full of toad out of his head.

There were no sauteed frog's legs on the table. There was an elegant rack of lamb, with mint sauce, and Merlin had been presented with a dish of delicately grilled vegetables. He and Arthur were seated across from Aredian and the entrepreneur and art collector, Cornelius Sigan, which enabled him to study them both with impunity whilst pretending to examine the enormous silver candelabras adorning the center of the table.

Aredian had arrived first, and as he and Uther busied themselves with drinks, the doorbell had rung and Sigan and his wife had been ushered into the room. Cornelius Sigan looked very much as Merlin had seen him in photographs (he had checked Google Image for up-to-date pictures): lanky, gaunt-faced, with light brown hair, a small Van Dyke beard, and somewhat prominent eyes, a rather cheerful smile. His wife Enid was beautiful, a stunning redhead with a magnificent figure; it was easy to believe that she had once been a highly-paid lingerie model. Merlin recalled Morgana's claim that she could talk the hind legs off a donkey and this appeared to be true, for from the moment she was introduced she never once halted the flow of chatter that issued from her pouting red-lacquered lips.

"Arthur," the entrepreneur had murmured, holding out his hand. "A pleasure. I believe the last time we met, you were still a schoolboy. I understand you've done fine work for the Pendragon Institute in New York...I really must pay the place a visit...during my next trip to the States, perhaps...Ah, your conservator, I think? Mr Emrys?"

Arthur took Sigan's hand and shook it, looking the man cooly in the eye. Sigan's own eyes had widened slightly at the sight of Arthur in his dark suit, his face impassive, his hair a gleaming, neatly styled cap of gold, and Merlin wondered how closely he resembled the sixteen year old the collector had seen last. Then Arthur introduced Merlin, and as Merlin put his hand into Sigan's faintly clammy grip, he could almost feel the collector's glance running over him in an assessing manner.

"I'm only a junior conservator, Mr Sigan," Merlin explained, but the collector smiled.

"That will change in future, I'm sure," he said, looking at Merlin's face and then at the slender hand he held, before releasing his hold.

"A very promising young man," boomed Aredian from across the room, and Merlin blinked. He could see Arthur making a concerted effort not to laugh.

As they all savored the delicious meal, and the wines that went with it, Arthur made small talk with the unstoppable Enid and exchanged a few pleasantries with Sigan. Merlin spoke when spoken to and soon found, to his relief, that Elaine was easy and pleasant to converse with. She addressed him with genuine sweetness and asked him questions about the staff at the Institute. She also asked him about Morgana, and whether Morgana was seeing some young man.

"The poor dear's so busy," she sighed, smiling brightly at Merlin, and he couldn't help but return her smile, wondering how on earth she was able to put up with Uther. "I do wish she would ring me more often. I'm quite desperate to hear from her. But she'll be here this weekend, I understand. I can't wait."

"Neither can I," Merlin replied frankly. He was thinking that Morgana's presence, with or without Leon in tow, would take some of the heat off himself and Arthur. If she should actually have the insanity, or courage, to introduce Leon as her lover, he could only imagine the eruption of Pendragon fury that would turn the household upside down. And poor Leon would get the ax, no doubt. It was good to know that he had that teaching position at one of the state universities waiting in the wings, should Uther decide to sack him. Well, Arthur would probably back her in whatever decision she made. And her little brother Mordred might do the same.

Mordred was not present at dinner, of course. Uther thought him too young for such company, and he had been sent to spend the night with a friend, a classmate from the nearby school for gifted children, where astronomical fees ensured that attending pupils were blessed with very wealthy daddies.

Pudding was creme brulee, Arthur's favorite according to Uther. Merlin (who could only accept a miniscule portion) eyed it wistfully, trying to imagine a plateful making contact with Aredian's face, obliterating that faintly condescending hauteur with a mass of burnt sugar topping and dripping cream.

He realized that he must have been grinning when Arthur shot him a warning look, and readjusted his features to reflect a courteous interest in whatever the senior Pendragon was saying. Uther, to give him credit, was an amiable and even charming host, smiling frequently and complimenting Aredian on his most recent work and Sigan on the continuing success of Raven Air ("I understand you still permit passengers to bring extra carry-on luggage at no charge!"). To Merlin he said little, but he was polite and included him in the general conversation, and Merlin could sense Arthur's shoulders relaxing as the evening wore on.

And he was still imagining the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute in that red Thriller jacket.

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The food fight Merlin had fantasized about did not materialize, much to his disappointment, and before long they were all sipping their coffee or partaking of Uther's fine, and no doubt expensive, brandy. Merlin refused the brandy (Arthur had given him another warning look) and accepted coffee, pleased to find that it was blessedly strong. Having returned to the parlour, they were all at liberty to stroll about and speak with whomever they wished, as well as indulge in more brandy and the sugar-glazed almonds Elaine had set out in little silver bowls. No sooner had he seated himself on a large, cream-colored ottoman than Merlin suddenly found Cornelius Sigan on his left, a brandy in one hand and a bowl of almonds in the other.

"Mr Emrys," Sigan said with a curl of his lips that was clearly meant to be friendly. "I hope you and Arthur are willing to come to my home to examine the tapestry I may turn over as a gift to the Pendragon Institute." His voice was light and faintly raspy; he mumbled a little so that Merlin had to lean towards him to hear what he was saying.

"I should like to see it," he replied cordially, trying to catch Arthur's eye. When the collector cleared his throat, he turned his head, only to find Sigan's face less than a foot away from his. Hesitant to look at him directly, he turned his attention to Sigan's tie, which was dark grey with a pattern of tiny black ravens.

"Ah yes," murmured Sigan, following Merlin's eyes. "My emblem."

"Very impressive," stammered Merlin, remembering the noisy crows outside of Arthur's window at the inn in Ealdor. As he had never flown Raven Air, he could think of nothing else to say on the subject.

"I shall speak to Arthur," Sigan continued, smiling more broadly. "I think you will both find the tapestry quite fascinating. Now that I've met you face to face, I can think of several reasons why."

What on earth was this odd bloke on about? "Oh?" Merlin said, beginning to feel more than a little uncomfortable. "That's, erm, interesting," he added lamely, raising his eyes to find Sigan's alight with some kind of secret amusement.

"Shall we say Monday, for dinner?" the collector asked, standing up. "I'll ask your Assistant Director now, if I may, Mr Emrys."

"Merlin," said Merlin automatically, still trying to catch Arthur's eye. "I've seen a photograph...that is, I've seen a fax of a photograph. It's a beautiful piece." To his immense relief, Arthur took advantage of a pause in Enid's continuous chatter to excuse himself and make his way across the room to Merlin's side. Sigan looked at him, still smiling, and Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Dear me, Arthur," said the collector smoothly. "I didn't mean to monopolize your young conservator's time." There was a touch of innuendo in his voice, and Merlin could see Arthur flush.

"Not a problem," mumbled Merlin before Arthur could reply. He realized that Cornelius Sigan must be well aware of their more-than-professional relationship; there had been too much noise in the press, months ago, for someone active in the museum world _not _to be aware of it.

"We were discussing your visit, to look at the tapestry," Sigan explained to Arthur. "I think Monday would be best. You'll come for dinner, I hope?"

"Thank you, yes," replied Arthur, rather curtly. Sigan smiled again, and then suddenly Aredian was standing at his elbow.

"Talking about that tapestry, are you?" he queried, his eyes moving from one to the other. "Magnificent work of art, I've never seen quite the like." As he looked at Merlin, his eyes suddenly narrowed, and he exchanged a brief glance with Sigan. "You'll appreciate it, I'm sure," he said to Arthur. "As will you, my boy."

Merlin gritted his teeth.

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For the next half hour, Sigan and Aredian appeared to be thoroughly preoccupied, although with what nobody was able to hear, as they spoke softly, keeping their distance from everyone else. Uther joked with the flirtatious Enid, and Arthur and Merlin sat quietly talking with Elaine about Morgana's upcoming weekend visit.

By the time the guests took their leave, everybody was stifling yawns. Merlin complimented Elaine on the dinner, thanked her and Uther for the "splendid evening," and mounted the stairs, trying to remember what he and Arthur were meant to be doing the following day. He could hear Arthur behind him, but did not turn his head until he reached the top of the steps. Once they were face to face, he could see that Arthur was tired, and faintly annoyed by the evening's proceedings, but - in typical Arthur fashion - would deny this if asked.

In the dimly lit hallway outside of his bedroom, Arthur caught Merlin by the wrist and tugged him against his chest. Then he curved one hand around the back of his neck and kissed him, softly but passionately, until the knees of both went a little weak.

"Your father will be coming up those stairs at any minute," Merlin said, muffled against Arthur's jaw.

"I know," Arthur responded, shrugging. "Your virtue is safe from me until he's out of the house."

"I can't believe how matey he is with Sigan," Merlin commented, running one finger along Arthur's jawline to his chin. "They're such complete opposites, personality wise. So if Sigan-"

"If you mention that man's name one more time," Arthur whispered, "I promise _I will make your life_ _a living hell_."

"More than you already do?" Merlin whispered back, rolling his eyes.

"Or I'll throw you to the dogs," Arthur said dreamily as he pulled Merlin back in.

"Dogs...what dogs?" Merlin scoffed before Arthur kissed him again. "There are no...mmph...no dogs in this pristine house."

"A pity," murmured Arthur. "Well, I'll have to think of another fitting punishment." He looked regretfully at his bedroom door, and then drew back, releasing Merlin's arm and waist, as he heard voices in the stairwell.

"Museums tomorrow," Arthur said loudly as Merlin stepped away from him. "We can begin making the rounds after breakfast."

"Goodnight, Arthur," Merlin replied just as loudly, seconds before Uther appeared at the top of the stairs. Turning, he headed in the direction of his own room, hoping that the senior Pendragon hadn't had the horrid notion of installing hidden cameras in the hallway.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Arthur Takes Control**

With Uther's dinner out of the way, the only thing to worry about was the upcoming evening with Cornelius Sigan. Although Arthur was saying nothing about it, Merlin could sense that he was uncomfortable with the prospect. In the meantime, Morgana's weekend visit was fast approaching, and he and Arthur amused themselves by making up scenarios for confrontations between herself and her stepfather.

"How can she possibly hide Leon?" Merlin wondered. "I'm surprised Uther hasn't heard anything about them from his cronies in New York. Or perhaps he has. It's not like Morgana's ever tried to hide their, erm, friendship. And what excuse did she give her mother for not staying at home while she's here?"

"Oh, she's stayed in hotels during previous visits," came the answer. "She tells them she likes her independence, and doesn't want to disturb them by having her friends trooping in and out of the house. Elaine's understanding. She's never interferred much with Morgana's private life. Father, on the other hand..." Arthur frowned, and Merlin realized that he wasn't only thinking about Morgana.

For the next two days, as planned, Arthur and Merlin made the rounds to London museums, viewing exhibitions and meeting with curators and other personnel. It was tiring, but not unpleasant, as there were some magnificent objects on display, and Arthur was on a friendly basis with most of the curators. During these jaunts Merlin encountered two young conservators, fellow students from the Courtauld, and they greeted him with alacrity, casting curious glances in Arthur's direction. There was no getting away from the fact that people _knew_ about them; this was inevitable, but Merlin realized that it must be a veritable thorn in Uther Pendragon's side.

Evenings in Uther's temporary Kensington home were only periodically awkward. Uther was surprisingly quiet, but he had occasional bouts of joviality, during which he spoke to his older son in a smiling and hearty, if not openly affectionate, manner. He addressed Merlin with courtesy, neither unfriendly nor particularly friendly, leaving it to his wife to make pleasant conversation with him. Arthur, for his part, talked business with his father and played table tennis (at which he was highly proficient) with Mordred. When Mordred wasn't playing table tennis, glued to his computer screen, or fiddling with complex algebra equations for fun, he sat and chatted with Merlin.

"I've never, _never_ seen this child take such a fancy to anyone outside the family circle," Elaine assured Merlin one morning at breakfast. "It's like _magic_...I don't know how you did it."

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"Are you going to stay in London until you go back to New York?" Mordred asked Merlin when he and Arthur collapsed in the parlour between museum visits.

"Erm, Arthur said something about driving to Wales..." Merlin said vaguely, realizing that their schedule would hardly allow them to do all the things they had talked about.

"Only if time permits," Arthur rapped out briskly. "Although I know Merlin's _dying_ to go to Cardiff."

"Says you," Merlin replied. "I wouldn't mind going, but we _won't _have enough time, I'm afraid."

"Afraid?" asked Arthur with mock concern. "What could you possibly be afraid of?"

"Ginger people," said Merlin, thinking fast. "Too many ginger people in Cardiff."

"_What_!" said Arthur in astonishment, before he very nearly doubled over with laughter.

"Don't listen to us," Merlin admonished Mordred. "We're just making this up. Of course we haven't anything against ginger people."

"My teacher has ginger hair," said Mordred, considering this.

"I happen to like it," Merlin began, but Arthur interrupted him with an imperious gesture.

"Merlin's afraid of them, Mordred," Arthur intoned in a voice of gloomy solemnity. "Terrified. Petrified. For pity's sake, Merlin, don't be such a girl! Cardiff's hardly teeming with gingers. I think there are one or two."

"He bullies me all the time," Merlin announced to Mordred, rolling his eyes. "Your big brother the Assistant Director suffers from delusions of royalty."

"Don't listen to him," Arthur said severely. "I treat my employees and colleagues at the Institute - including Merlin and your sister - with the greatest kindness, gentility, and respect." (Merlin guffawed.) "He's simply being difficult. For shame, Merlin. Just wait until we get back to New York; the others will back me up."

The unrepentant silliness and rampant absurdity of their banter was completely lost on Mordred, who stared at them as if they had just beamed down from outer space. After a moment of looking from one to the other, and then wrinkling his brow, he came forward with a request:

"Can I come with you?"

"What, to New York?" asked Arthur, amazed, staring into his half-brother's pale little face. Mordred's grey-blue eyes stared intently back.

Surprisingly, they were saved from discussion of this by Uther, who came to collect his young son for a visit to the science museum, where there was to be a lecture on quantum mechanics.

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Several minutes before midnight each evening, Merlin made his way dutifully to the guest bedroom across the hall from Mordred. He wouldn't have put it past Uther to patrol the halls at night, so he put all thought of sneaking into Arthur's room, or allowing Arthur to sneak into his, out of his mind.

Arthur insisted that half the fun of fooling around on the sly was the sneaking part, but Merlin was hesitant.

"This has _got_ to stop," Arthur muttered on the threshhold of his own bedroom door, Wednesday night. Merlin wasn't certain whether he was referring to Uther's attitude or the nightly absence of his bed partner, but short of resorting to sex on the roof or in the pantry, there seemed to be little they could do.

"I refuse to take my trousers off in your stepmother's pantry," Merlin said adamantly when Arthur made what he hoped was a joking reference to it. "Or anything else. Pendragon Senior would come prowling in, looking for biscuits or cereal, at precisely the wrong moment." Images of Uther reeling backward with surprise and shock, bits of cereal flying about the room, milk spilling, himself and Arthur locked in some sort of messy, half-arsed, partially-clothed embrace in the midst of kitchen supplies and boxes of Weetabix, filled his head.

Arthur shook his head, scowled, and told Merlin that he was an idiot.

On Thursday, the day before Morgana was due to arrive in London ("Where the devil are they staying? Which hotel?" Arthur asked Merlin under his breath. "Probably someplace on the other side of town," was Merlin's reply), Arthur declared himself ready to brave the National Gallery, and he, Merlin, and Uther (who had a business appointment in the neighborhood) took a car to Trafalgar Square. It was grey and there was a light rain - hardly unusual weather for London - but the Square was crowded with what seemed to be busloads of tourists, museum-goers with maps and handbooks, lines of children and young people waiting to climb the lion statues, and the usual hardy pigeons.

"Bloody nuisance," murmured Uther distractedly, looking at his wristwatch. "Won't be home for hours, I should imagine. Tedious board meeting. If you're home before I am, tell Elaine I may be late. Where are you off to, after the National Gallery?"

"I thought we might nip into the V and A," Arthur replied cheerfully, checking his own watch and fishing his Ray-Bans out of his pocket. ("Why are you bringing those? It's cloudy outside," Merlin had groaned. "I like having them with me," was Arthur's nonchalant reply.) "There are some things I've been meaning to look at."

Merlin opened his mouth to say that they had been to the Victoria and Albert only yesterday, but Arthur gave him a fierce death glare, so he shut it again.

Uther strode off in the direction of his appointment, and as soon as he was out of sight, Arthur hailed a taxi.

"Right," he said decisively, giving the driver the address of the Kensington house. "Traffic's not too horrible today, thank the gods."

"Arthur," said Merlin carefully, staring at his Assistant Director. "Are we going back to the_ house_?"

"We are," Arthur answered abruptly and then was silent until the taxi stopped at the front door. He paid the driver, pulled his keys out of his pocket, and let them both into the dim and silent front hall.

"Where's Mordred?" Merlin asked, casting an anxious glance around the empty and echoing space.

"Elaine's taken him shopping," Arthur said, gripping Merlin by the elbow and heading for the stairs. "Then they're going to a friend's for tea." He led the way to his bedroom, and pushed the door open.

They were barely across the threshhold when Arthur spun Merlin around and engulfed him.

"Erm, Arthur, _oh_!" said Merlin when Arthur finally let him speak. "What if U-"

"He said he wouldn't be back for_ hours_," Arthur replied hoarsely several minutes later, fumbling with his belt and then yanking Merlin's shirt over his head. "And _hours_ are exactly what we need." He pushed Merlin onto the bed and kissed him, sighing with sheer pleasure as his body relearnt the contours and angles of his conservator's thin frame, fighting just a little against the urgency that was building in him, forcing his hands to be gentle. Merlin's own hands were moving over the smooth skin of Arthur's back, feeling the muscles quivering with tension. His nimble, well-trained fingers made short work of the button and zip of Arthur's trousers, which he eased below his hips, and then, with a presence of mind that surprised him, he disengaged himself from Arthur's grasp, reaching beyond the bed to switch on Mordred's Father Detector. Arthur snarled and pulled him back.

"Ow!" said Merlin indignantly. Arthur had gone at his ear with his pointy teeth.

"Sorry," mumbled Arthur, going after the other one.

Merlin began to protest, but Arthur released his ear and captured his mouth instead, teeth and tongue colliding with Merlin's almost painfully. Merlin's arms went around his neck and he arched his back, pressing himself tightly against flushed, tanned skin, a broad, muscular chest, and its dusting of hair slightly darker than the gold on Arthur's head. Then he tilted his own head enough to allow their lips to fit together more closely, whilst the fingers of one hand caressed the side of Arthur's face, traced the outline of his jaw, trailed down his throat. They closed their eyes as they kissed, tasting, teasing slowly, taking their time, diving deep and then nibbling lightly. When they finally came up for air, Arthur tore off what remained of his own clothing and Merlin managed to divest himself of the jeans that were down around his ankles.

They floundered about amongst the mountain of cushions Elaine had seen fit to ornament Arthur's bed with.

"Arthur, wait," said Merlin in what he hoped was a firm voice, wriggling and trying to get one of the embroidered bolsters out from under his back.

"Shhhh! Can't wait," was the reply as Arthur climbed on top.

Pillows, cushions, and bolsters were tossed onto the floor to provide more space to maneuver in.

"Well," whispered Merlin, his palms coming to rest against Arthur's shoulder blades. "Shall we talk about particle physics, then?"

"Shut _up_!" snapped Arthur, as usual, and repossessed himself of Merlin's mouth.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I'd try for a fourth go," Arthur said drowsily. "But I don't think I can...I'm exhausted. I must be getting old."

Merlin snorted with derision. The window was open and the damp, grey air was surprisingly chilly, so he was curled under the duvet, eyes half-closed and dreamy, one hand idly stroking Arthur's chest.

Arthur was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling without really seeing it. His hair was all tousled and feathery over his brow, and his lips were deep pink and swollen. After a while he sighed, reached out, and hauled Merlin against his side, pulling the bedclothes protectively about his shoulders. He felt Merlin give a little shiver and tightened his hold on him, turning on his side to nuzzle the sharp cheekbones and watch the black lashes flicker over those dark blue eyes.

Merlin nuzzled back, pressing his face against Arthur's neck. He could breathe deeply, now that that beautiful, solid, and chiseled body was no longer pressing him down into the mattress. He felt limp, boneless and weightless, still dizzy with pleasure.

"We put that off for too long," Arthur mumbled, resting his fingers against the shallow curve of Merlin's narrow waist. "Because you were afraid of getting caught."

"And now you're going to say I'm an idiot," Merlin smiled.

"Yes, but you're _my_ idiot," Arthur replied, his voice replete with satisfaction. "God, are you hungry? I could eat an ox."

"I don't eat ox," Merlin said, grimacing, and Arthur laughed quietly against his forehead.

"I can't believe you thought I really wanted to go back to the V and A," he whispered. "You never give me credit for planning ahead."

"I didn't know that the only plan you had was for getting me naked," Merlin protested. "I can't read minds; how was I supposed to know...what was that?"

"What was what?" Arthur responded, his eyes closed. He yawned mightily, shoving the bedclothes off of himself, and stretched, all pale bronze, pink, and gold, and then settled down, his fingers beating the rhythm of some obscure ballad against Merlin's ribs.

"Erm...Arthur..." Merlin sat up halfway, alerted by a faint, high beeping sound. He turned his head, eyes widening.

It was Mordred's Father Detector. He felt Arthur tense as their eyes fastened on the tiny screen, and the view of the front door from inside the front hall.

They were in time to see the door close. The picture on the screen was slightly out of focus, but clear enough to show them that Uther had come home.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Sex, Lies, and What to Do About Uther**

Uther Pendragon was examining the small pile of mail, delivered earlier, that now rested in the Chinese celadon bowl on the hall table. His upright figure was clearly visible on the little screen of the Father Detector sitting on Arthur's bedside table. The gadget was still emitting a high, shrill beeping sound, and Merlin searched frantically for a way to turn it off.

"I think Mordred forgot to add an 'off' switch," he murmured to Arthur, who had flung a tee shirt over his head and was now pulling on a pair of boxer shorts.

As Merlin stumbled into his jeans and hunted in the bedclothes for his shirt, the beeping stopped. Uther had disappeared from the screen, and he prayed that the senior Pendragon had gone off to his study, or to pour a drink, or inspect his emails, or have a quick pee...anywhere but upstairs.

"This is ri_dic_ulous," Arthur was muttering. "I'm hardly a minor. I'm a functioning adult, or at least I was until I met you. What I do, and with whom, in private, is none of his bloody business. It's not as if he didn't know about us. I'm inclined to drag you downstairs and snog you right in front of-"

"No, not-" Merlin's voice unintentionally rose about an octave to a high-pitched squeak that startled both of them. "Not _now_. Think of your stepmother and _Mordred_."

Arthur shrugged histrionically. "Okay, perhaps now is not the time. But someday..." He finished dressing, and opened the second window, to air out the room. Merlin, now fully clothed except for his shoes, was standing with his ear to the door, listening for footsteps, and Arthur gave him a questioning look.

"As _now_ is probably not the best time for him to find out we've been shagging each other blind for the past two hours or so," Merlin said, "I think I should disappear until dinner."

Arthur chewed on his lower lip. He had been hoping to spend at least another hour entangled with Merlin in the comfortable warmth of his bed, but now... He sighed, straightened his shirt, and then reached out to smooth Merlin's short and spiky fringe before brushing down the peaks of black hair that were standing up on the back of his head. "Why not go to your room; I'll tell him-"

They both stood stock still as the sound of a heavy tread on the stairs alerted them to Uther's approach and Arthur mouthed a silent but infuriated "No!"

"Surely he's not going to come barging into your bedroom," Merlin began, but as the footsteps drew nearer it appeared that this was a distinct possibility.

It took seconds for Merlin to gather up all of the cushions and bolsters littering the floor and toss them onto the bed, over which Arthur had hastily thrown the coverlet. Arthur glanced at the closet as a possible hiding place, and then the footsteps ceased just outside the door. A moment later Uther's imperious knock resounded loudly through the room. There was no time to think about what to do, and Merlin simply dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed. Arthur kicked Merlin's shoes out of sight as well (he heard a stifled grunt from Merlin), and then flung himself on top of the heap of cushions, trying to look for all the world as if he had just been awakened from a nap by his father's sudden intrusion.

"It's not locked," he said in a muffled voice, making an effort to sound sleepy, and silently cursing himself and Merlin for a pair of cowards. After all, Uther was perfectly aware that the two of them were living together in the New York flat! So why the need for this skulking about? Why did they have to behave like underage teens in his father's house?

The answer, of course, was that neither of them wanted to put Uther in a foul mood, which would doubtless upset Elaine, confuse Mordred, and ruin the remainder of their stay in London. Arthur was mulling this over as Uther pushed the door open and stepped into the room, eyebrows raised at the sight of his disheveled and slightly bleary-eyed son.

"Didn't you go to the Victoria and Albert?" he asked, eyes skimming the room for signs of...well, obviously, for signs of Merlin. "Sorry to wake you, are you feeling unwell?"

"No," replied Arthur, sitting up. "I - the National Gallery was crowded. We did spend some time in the V and A." This wasn't exactly a lie; they had spent time there yesterday. "And then I felt exhausted. It might be delayed jet lag. I really needed a few minutes of sleep."

"Where's Merlin?" Uther said, his eyes still darting about as though he suspected Merlin of having powers of invisibility.

"He said something about wanting to see some of his mates from Cambridge," Arthur said evasively. This was the honest truth; Merlin had said exactly that, only he had said it that morning and had not yet bothered to ring any of them up.

Uther sat down in the armchair facing the bed. "I ran into Aredian, after my board meeting," he announced, crossing his arms. "He wanted to talk about that wooden sculpture, you know, the unknown nobleman or saint, the one with the damaged surface and bubbling paint. He was complimentary about the work of your conservators, but thought he might be able to contribute to its repair."

There was a pause and then Arthur said "What?" in a tone of voice the Institute staff had come to know and dread.

"He said something about a new technique that works beautifully on bubbling and cracking pigment," Uther murmured vaguely. "Interesting, don't you think?"

"Should we discuss this downstairs, Father?" Arthur asked, thinking of Merlin under the bed. "I'll just put on my-" He looked about for his shoes, wondering where he had discarded them during the process of stripping Merlin and himself.

"No, no, I'll leave you to rest," Uther said in a jovial voice. "I just thought I'd tell you about Aredian before I forget. The senior moments are coming thick and fast now; I can never seem to remember anything unless I write it down."

Arthur didn't believe that the senior Pendragon had ever forgotten anything in his life. "Father," he snapped, a horrible thought suddenly coming to him, "you're not thinking of hiring _Aredian_ to work for the Institute!"

"Goodness, Arthur," Uther replied, eyebrows raised. "Why the hostility? The man's a master."

"I have four conservators," said Arthur shortly. "I don't need another."

"I never said you did," countered Uther, his voice soothing. "And, really, you only have one full-time objects conservator. Gwen does textiles, does she not? Gaius is a paper specialist, like Merlin, and Merlin still has junior status. But there's no need to be concerned; I've no intention of hiring Aredian. I _have_ known him for years, and although he's one of the best, he's a bit of a prima donna. I can just see him and Gaius going head to head over every little issue. No, I simply may ask him to do some work on that sculpture - just for a brief period, mind, and purely on a freelance basis."

"Why?" asked Arthur coldly. "Will's an excellent objects conservator. His work on Lord Mo...on that sculpture is perfectly satisfactory. He's had some help from Merlin as well, and Merlin_ is_ qualified to work on three-dimensional objects as well as paper. There is absolutely no need for a third party."

"Arthur, it would only be temporary," Uther said, looking narrowly at his son. "I don't want an additional conservator for the Institute, but I wouldn't mind letting the man apply this new technique to that problematic sculpture. All you need do, if we decide to proceed, is to tell your Conservation Department to give Aredian free rein for a bit. Unless you think such an order might meet with, shall we say, resistance from _someone_ on your staff."

"Merlin is my conservator," Arthur said, his tone of voice very calm. "He will do as I tell him, in that regard."

Even as the words left his lips he could imagine Merlin rolling his eyes, under the bed.

"Good," Uther murmured, looking satisfied. "Now I'll just let you get another half hour or so of rest."

"Thank you." If Arthur's jaw was clenched, his father pretended not to notice.

"Elaine only just rang me," Uther added, getting to his feet. "It seems that Mordred and the son of her friend are involved in some sort of game with his Wii, and it's proving difficult to tear him away. When Merlin materializes, would you tell him that dinner will be a little late?"

The door closed behind him with a sharp click and Arthur stood up, put his head in his hands, and groaned with exasperation.

"Well," said Merlin cheerfully, his head popping out from beneath the foot of the bed. "If Uther hires that dollop-head to work for the Institute, do the rest of us conservators get extra vacation time?"

"Absolutely not," replied Arthur curtly. "In fact, I'm working on a new employment contract that says Merlin Emrys in entitled to zero vacation days. But don't worry, Aredian is _not _coming to work with us if I can help it."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dinner _was_ late, as Mordred had proved difficult to coax into returning home with his mother. He was smiling a little evilly over the number of times he had beaten his friend at their computer game, and chatted to Merlin with enthusiasm throughout the meal. This was so uncharacteristic of him - Arthur had known a withdrawn and cool-eyed Mordred to sit through an entire dinner without saying a word - that even Uther seemed somewhat astonished. Merlin spoke gently with the boy, trying to draw him out on a variety of subjects that interested him, and Arthur was pleased to see that his stepmother was regarding him with warm approval.

"I want to go to New York with Arthur and Merlin," Mordred said in a flat little voice after his second helping of pudding.

Uther quickly changed the subject, launching into a monologue on the subject of art collectors and museums, specifically on how museums wooed collectors in the hope of inheriting their art, or perhaps some of their wealth, someday. None of this was news to Arthur, who had wined and dined enough collectors to know how to encourage them with hints of galleries named after them, with the suggestion that their names would be forever linked to a prestigious institution.

"These aren't lies, naturally," Uther continued. "But neither are they promises. I think they fall under the category of _enticements_."

"A few museum directors, or their associates, are really unscrupulous," Arthur added under his breath so that Mordred could not hear. "They'll do almost anything, short of offering sex, to get a collector to donate his or her art."

"_You_ haven't offered sex, have you?" Merlin whispered jokingly.

"God forbid," Arthur whispered back, pretending to be shocked.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They had coffee in the parlour, and whilst Uther and his wife discussed Morgana's visit, and what they would have for dinner when she came to the house on Saturday, Arthur wondered whether they were aware of Leon's presence in his stepsister's life. Merlin strolled the length of the room, admiring the Renoir, the Picasso, the Chinese bird-and-flower painting, and the Indian miniatures hanging on the walls, presumably brought from the family home near Belgrave Square.

"Did you ever see that movie from the nineteen eighties, 'Sex, Lies, and Videotape,'?" Arthur whispered as Merlin went past him.

"D'you mean the one about the bloke who makes videos of women talking about sex?" Merlin whispered back. "And then has a good wank when he watches them later?"

"Something like that," Arthur muttered. Then he pulled a wry face. "We could make a movie and call it 'Sex, Lies, and Museum Curators.' What do you think?"

"Nobody would go to see it," Merlin replied after a moment of thought. "Who wants to see movies about stuffy museum types? People want a screenful of nudity and violence. How many curators and directors and conservators do you know who would look good with their clothes off? Apart from ours, that is."

"As for violence, I know plenty of curators from rival museums who would love to bash their competitors' heads in," Arthur replied drily. "And our lovely and aggressive friend Nimueh, from Boston, would probably be happy to take her clothes off if _you_ were in the movie as well."

"Don't be such an ass," Merlin muttered under his breath, blushing a little. Memories of the Boston conservator's attempts to seduce him were still a source of embarrassment.

"Do you remember what time Morgana's flight arrives tomorrow?" Uther called from the other end of the room. "She sent me the information, but I appear to have erased the email by mistake."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin went upstairs to bed several minutes earlier than Arthur, but he lingered in the hall in order to give his Assistant Director a whispered Good Night. Arthur stopped and put his hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin put _his_ hand on Arthur's wrist, delicately rubbing circles there with his thumb. They could hear Uther and Elaine at the foot of the stairs, so Arthur made a face, squeezed Merlin's shoulder a little and then continued down the hall to his own room.

Once ensconced in his bed, pillows propped up behind him and Elaine's hoard of cushions shoved to one side, Arthur thought about what his father had said, earlier. About the prospect of Aredian doing some sort of work for the Institute. About Morgana's pending arrival. But mostly he thought about Merlin. He thought about their afternoon tryst, only hours ago, and how bloody blissful it had been to relax with Merlin in his bed, afterward, and how the drowsy aftermath never diminished their pleasure but only seemed to perpetuate it. Even if you put aside the sex (_not_ that Arthur was likely to put_ that_ aside), the mere sensation of lying under the duvet with Merlin pressed to his side was singularly...was unique. Then he thought about the light touch of Merlin's fingertips on his collarbone, or stroking his upper arm, or pushing the hair back from his forehead...and that faint, breathy little moan he sometimes gave when Arthur pulled him face to face, skin against skin.

He shifted a little, because these thoughts were beginning to put him into a condition that was not conducive to sleep.

It was another forty-five minutes (during which Arthur became desperate enough to try counting sheep, reciting the multiplication tables, and conjuring up images of his ugliest Maths teacher from long-ago school days) before he was able to drift off into a light and restless sleep. In his dreams, Aredian was threatening to burn the entire staff of the Pendragon Institute at the stake, and Arthur felt himself powerless to stop him.

* * *

**For the record, in many cases the term "paper conservator" refers to conservation specialists able to work with not only traditional paper (of various types) but also paper-like materials, such as parchment, vellum, prepared silk, or even papyrus.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: Witchcraft**

"I like to think that the staff are joking when they call me a witch," Morgana said. "I like to think that it's a term of endearment, coming from them."

"If you were Glenda the Good Witch, maybe," Arthur replied, staring at the ceiling with an expression of innocence. "But I believe they simply call you a...witch."

It was Saturday morning, and he and Merlin were slouched on the massive sofa, upholstered in a highly slippery, satin-like fabric, in the sitting room of Morgana's one-bedroom suite. It was an elegantly furnished and well-lit space in a hotel that was, as Merlin had predicted, a good distance from Uther's temporary residence. She and Leon had arrived the evening before, and were scheduled to head back to New York on Monday.

"Just a long weekend," sighed Morgana, shrugging. "But we can ring up some old friends and I can do a bit of shopping. I'll have a few hours to stop in at the museums tomorrow, and Leon can spend time with his parents. We had a late dinner with them yesterday, after our flight arrived."

"I can see _you're_ simply dying to spend some time in the bosom of your family," Arthur said sarcastically.

"Oh yeah, she talks about them all the time," Leon interjected, grinning. He had settled into an armchair where he fell asleep every ten minutes, to the amusement of everyone else.

"Boys, boys, you have no idea," Morgana said loftily, one hand twisting her heavy mass of raven hair. "You haven't a clue about how I _truly_ feel about my family. Did you have a splendid time in Ealdor, Merlin? And how did Arthur behave? Did he cow the local populace and look down his nose at the accommodations?"

"No, he was actually very polite," Merlin replied, cutting off Arthur, who was making noises of outrage. He reached for a biscuit on the coffee table and slid off the sofa as a result. "He was lovely to my mum. She was delighted with him. For the rest of the time, he strode arrogantly amongst the locals, wreaking havoc in the hearts of the female population."

"It's not arrogance," Arthur insisted. "Ignore him, he's an idiot."

Merlin, on the floor, gave a tolerant little smile and rolled his eyes.

"No, he's right," Morgana said firmly.

"It's _not_ arrogance," Arthur said again, emphatically. "It's...it's self confidence."

"Ha!" Morgana snorted, giving her stepbrother a glance of gentle scorn. "Now. Should I bring wine or flowers to Uther's this evening. And what's it like, the new place? Do you think they might keep it after our old house has been renovated?"

"I don't care what you bring, and they won't either," Arthur retorted. "And no, Father's planning to sell it as soon as the Belgravia house is ready to be lived in again. I understand you're dragging poor Leon to dinner tonight, you evil creature?"

All three shot a quick look in Leon's direction, but he had nodded off for perhaps the fifth time that morning.

"I know it sounds daring," Morgana said serenely. "But I want to bring Leon, and I don't care if it's risky. Uther won't dare sack him, should he figure things out, and even if he does, Leon has that professorship lined up. He won't be out in the cold, seeking employment."

"Leon's got courage," mumbled Arthur. "I'd hate to lose him, he's a great Head of Security, but I can understand that a professorship might be nicer for someone with his training, not to mention more prestigious. And to Father's way of thinking, more acceptable."

"Training?" said Morgana. "You make him sound like a racehorse, or a boxer. Uther is such a snob. I know you're rather fond of him, but you agree with me just the same. Incidentally, for the record, we're telling him that Leon's in the City to visit his parents, and I ran into him, oh, somewhere, and invited him to dinner."

"Well, this_ is_ a tangle," Arthur murmured, raising a corner of his upper lip in the sardonic smile he had perfected years ago. "You're supposedly here on your own, but you bring Leon to dinner. He _just happens_ to be in London visiting his parents, and wouldn't you know it, he runs into _you._ Merlin and I share a flat in New York, and everybody knows it, but of course we can't even share _a room_ in Father's house. Now Mordred's been yammering on about coming to New York with us, and he thinks we talk about particle physics in...in...when we're alone together."

"What?" asked Morgana, totally confused. "Particle physics? Oh, does Mordred really want to come to New York? Bless the boy. Uther must have had kittens when he said that. I suppose he could live with me for a while, if Le...if Mum doesn't object."

"And to top everything off," Arthur continued, making such a horrible face that Morgana couldn't repress her laughter, "Father's talking about asking _Aredian_ to do a little freelance work on Lord Moldywart."

"Aredian?" Morgana said, wrinkling her brow. "Oh no. That man is such a toad. I vote against it, whatever Uther says. Oh, Arthur! Aren't you meant to be visiting Cornelius Sigan, to look at that tapestry?"

"It's one miserable thing after another," Arthur growled. "Yes, on Monday. Shall I slit my wrists now, or just wait until afterward."

"Oh, will you shut up!" snapped Morgana. "I don't want to hear you say any such thing, ever again. You're a big boy, Arthur, you can cope with a little worm like Sigan if you have to."

"First toads and now worms," Merlin commented from the floor. "What's next? Ostriches?"

"Sigan actually looks a bit like one," Arthur said testily. "Will you _get up off the carpet_, Merlin, before someone steps on you? Morgana, I can assure you now that Aredian _will not_ be coming to work for the Institute. And yes, I can handle Sigan; I'd simply rather not have to. Now, what is it we're all meant to be doing this afternoon? Would somebody please wake up Leon?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As it happened, Morgana devoted the hours between lunch and tea to spending a great deal of what Arthur said was her monthly salary. Brandishing handwritten lists, cash, and credit cards, she shop-hopped vigorously, at one point roping Leon, Arthur, and Merlin into accompanying her to a department store to find small gifts for friends and an evening garment for herself.

As Morgana to waited on a long line to pay for the items she had selected, Arthur overcame his dislike of shopping long enough to drag Merlin into the men's clothing department, where he purchased a fairly tame Vivienne Westwood jacket for his junior conservator.

"Arthur," said Merlin, sneaking a look at himself in the mirror. "I've told you not to buy me things...it isn't right."

"Why not?" Arthur responded, pulling out his Platinum American Express card. "It looks gr...I mean, it suits you."

"_Because_," Merlin mumbled, fidgeting with embarrassment as he gazed into the mirror at his suddenly svelt and fashionable self, "I can't buy you anything comparable in return, and it makes me feel like I'm your...your mistress...or a _courtesan_, or whatever the male equivalent is."

Arthur's head went back in that characteristic gesture as he burst out laughing. Ignoring Merlin's scowl, he tugged the jacket off his shoulders, marched to the checkout counter, and paid for it.

"Look on the bright side, Merlin," he said, still grinning as they emerged from the store. "At least I'm not buying you_ jewelry_."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It took a while to locate Morgana, who had vanished behind the massive glass doors of yet another expensive-looking shop.

Leon shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, but Arthur was clearly annoyed. His annoyance grew when Morgana finally reappeared, bearing a huge shopping bag containing a rectangular box.

"Your broomstick, no doubt," he said snidely. "A folding one."

"It's pastries, for this evening," replied Morgana, sharply. "And now I'll make certain you don't get any. Honestly Arthur, did you think I'd gotten lost?"

"The thought had occured to me," Arthur said. "Lost somewhere between Armani and Vera Wang. Searching for you amongst the designer clothing racks would be like hunting down a rabid animal. What a relief we've found you."

"A relief," said Morgana, her lips beginning to tighten. It was plain that jet lag had not improved her temper. "A _rabid animal_? You didn't _find_ me. In fact, you didn't even look. I found _you_. What do you mean, a relief?"

"Oh no," Leon said under his breath, nudging Merlin in the ribs.

"Well," Arthur went on blithely. "It was like the relief you feel when you've lost your wallet, and then you find it."

"Your _wallet_," Morgana said steadily, breathing hard through her nose.

"Yes," Arthur continued, heedless of his impending doom. "A leathery and old one."

Merlin effectively got between the stepsiblings before Morgana could hit Arthur over the head with her heavy (leather) bag.

"Shall we go back to your hotel, Morgana?" he asked with the most charming smile he could muster, warily eyeing the bag she still held poised in mid air. "You can tell us all about Gwen's bridal shower."

"Nice work, Merlin," Leon murmured as the four of them set off to find a taxi. "That's the sort of thing my staff and I have to do all the time. You'd be amazed at how many men think museums are the ideal place to tell their wives or girlfriends they've met someone else. The poor saps think the public surroundings will prevent the ladies from flying into a rage and slapping them in the face. How wrong they are."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time they were sitting once again in the hotel suite, Morgana's sense of humor had reasserted itself, and she was actually sniggering over having been compared to an old wallet.

The plan was that Arthur and Merlin would return to the Kensington house after tea, and Morgana would arrive with Leon just before dinner. But just now, Leon was back in his armchair, looking drowsy again, and Arthur and his stepsister perched on the sofa, with Merlin between them, "To keep the peace," as Arthur said smugly.

Arthur's arm was across the back of the sofa, which meant that it was more or less across Merlin's shoulders. He gestured as he spoke, and every now and then, his hand accidentally brushed the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin could see that Morgana was watching them out of the corner of her eye, but this was hardly new. Arthur had once joked to him that Morgana was dying to catch them in the act...some sort of act, any kind of act...and although Merlin felt that this was an exaggeration, he too was aware of Morgana's intense curiosity about their private life.

"I brought gifts for everybody in the family, from New York," Morgana was saying brightly. "For Mum, Uther, and Mordred. I also remembered to bring all sorts of choc bars. Does he _really_ want to move to New York? To_ live_?"

"Erm, that's what he says," Merlin replied, privately thinking that Uther would undergo spontaneous combustion at the very thought of his younger son growing up in an American city.

"Perhaps he _should_ spend some time living in New York," Morgana suggested, wrinkling her brow. "Even go to school there. You know, with _real _children, his own age..."

Most of Mordred's classmates in his school for gifted children were older then he was by several years.

"No!" shouted Arthur, aghast at the thought of Mordred living in his flat, with himself and Merlin. Joining them at dinner, invading their sitting room with his Wii, and demanding to know what was going on at the Institute. Rearranging all of the books on their bookshelves according to size and color. Filling his kitchen cabinets with lollies and choc bars. Barging into their bedroom to discover whether or not they discussed physics and quantum theory between the sheets.

"He needn't live with _you_, Arthur," Morgana said patiently. "He could live with me, if Mum doesn't mind too much. After all, I'm, well, more or less living alone, except for the weekends..." She cast an ambiguous glance at Leon, who was asleep again. "It might do him some good. He's never been able to live like a normal child, he's never spent a great deal of time with ordinary children. And Mum could come and visit quite often, I suppose."

"I don't think Elaine would stand for it," Arthur said, frowning. "Her youngest child moving away?"

"He'll be twelve in a year or so," Morgana sighed. "So many little boys go off to school as full boarders by his age, if not earlier, and only come home for the holidays."

"I don't know," muttered Arthur, still frowning, his fingers toying absently with the ends of Merlin's hair, lightly skimming over his nape. Then he realized what he was doing, and stopped. "What would Leon think?"

"Oh, Leon likes children," Morgana said casually, flicking a glance in his direction. "He's good with them."

"Father won't like it," Arthur said abruptly. "He probably has high hopes for Mordred. His first-born son has disappointed him, opting to spend more than half of his time in the States, avoiding matrimony with any of the daughters of daddy's aristo mates, and...and sharing his living space with some fledgeling conservator who hasn't a bean to his name."

It was Merlin's turn to make outraged noises, and Arthur swatted the back of his head.

"I do so have a bean to my name," stated Merlin reproachfully. "I have a savings account. And a checking account. And enough spending money to pay for my Starbucks ventis, thank you very much."

"So I don't know how you could possibly convince him," Arthur went on, ignoring this minor outburst but secretly admiring the way his conservator's blue eyes had gone darker, the pink flush that had spread across those cheekbones. "Unless you want to use witchcraft, Morgana. God, look at the time! We'd better leave, Merlin, if we want to get home before these lovebirds arrive. Morgana, wake up Leon, and tell him we'll see him at seven. Merlin! For pity's sake, don't forget that jacket!"

* * *

**Sorry, I couldn't resist paraphrasing some lines from Bradley James' recent and amusing interview for **_**Digital Spy**_**, comparing Prince Arthur's relief at finding Morgana to the relief one would feel upon finding a lost wallet (leathery and old).**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: The Round Table**

"Morgana rang up less than an hour ago," Elaine said to her stepson shortly after Arthur and Merlin walked through the front door. "She was so happy to see you both this morning. Oh, and she's bringing a friend to dinner. He's one of your employees, Arthur, from the Institute."

"Yes, she told me," Arthur said truthfully, and quickly made himself scarce, disappearing into his room to change. Merlin took the box containing his new jacket to the guest bedroom, where he hung the garment in the wardrobe and stood staring at it for several moments.

At about twenty minutes before seven, Arthur knocked on his door and then entered.

"You didn't wait for me to say you could come in," Merlin said, his voice barely audible through the folds of a tee shirt he was pulling over his head.

"_You_ never do," Arthur retorted, lifting an eyebrow. "In fact, you never even knock." Merlin's tousled head emerged from the neck opening of the shirt, and he struggled to pull it down over his slender upper body. Arthur reached out and did it for him.

"Your father said informal," Merlin said a little defensively, when Arthur remained silent. "And you're wearing a tee-shirt as well."

Arthur was, in fact, wearing a black tee shirt with jeans, but his beautifully cut hair was neatly brushed, a gold Rolex encircled one wrist, and he looked sophisticated, well-groomed, and immaculate. Merlin's midnight blue shirt was unwrinkled, but his jeans were unquestionably faded and a bit worn at the knees, his hair stood up in inky peaks, points, and little tufts, and his general appearance was one of waiflike innocence. Charming, certainly, and definitely appealing (Arthur pushed the word "seductive" to the back of his mind), but perhaps not the sort of look Uther would approve of. Arthur located a comb and proceeded to tame Merlin's hair with it.

"Ow," murmured his junior conservator as the comb encountered a series of tangles. "Stop it!" He made a halfhearted attempt to grab the comb, but Arthur batted his hand away and went on with what he was doing. He used his fingers to tease out the worst of the knots, muttering "Idiot," under his breath the whole time.

Once Merlin's hair had been beaten more or less into shape, Arthur stood back and looked at him. Merlin raised his eyes and blushed a little, because Arthur's blue gaze was fixed intently on his mouth, his own lips curved upward in a faint smile. It seemed unfair not to acknowledge this, and so Merlin (afer a rapid glance at the closed door) went to him and kissed him. Arthur rested his hands on Merlin's hipbones and kissed back, pushing him gently against the wardrobe. They kissed softly, so as not to lose their self-control, and Merlin sighed, closing his eyes. He felt Arthur's lips brush each of his eyelids, and it took a great deal of will power for him to keep his hands from slipping beneath that trim, black, and probably expensive tee shirt.

"You won't mind, I hope," Arthur said into his left ear, "if I pay you a little visit tonight?"

Merlin felt the grasp on his hips tighten, and whispered "Arthur," in a voice of quiet apprehension...and then a knock on the door had them pulling away from each other, hands smoothing clothing and hair, wiping moisture from lips, eyes checking each other rapidly for overt signs of arousal.

The knock sounded again, and it seemed to be lower down on the door than one would expect. Elaine had gone to the kitchen to supervise dinner preparations, so unless Uther was outside the door on his knees, it had to be Mordred.

"Enter," said Arthur, a little pompously, and the door opened to reveal Mordred, neatly dressed, his face uncharacteristically wreathed in smiles. It took Arthur several moments to realize that it was because his half-sister, one of the few people with whom he was completely comfortable, was coming to dinner.

"I was thinking," Mordred said in the serious voice so unlike that of the average eleven year old, "If I go with you to New York, I could get a job at the Museum of Natural History."

"Erm," Merlin mumbled hesitantly, and Arthur gave him a look of mock despair. "They're not likely to employ you until you're at least eighteen, Mordred," he said firmly, putting one hand on his half-brother's shoulder. "Yes, they hire many scientists, but only ones who are old enough to shave."

"You'll need a science degree," added Merlin, trying to soften the blow by smiling. "A PhD, I should think."

"I can go to MIT," Mordred stated confidently. "The Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Isn't that one of the best science universities?"

"It's in _Massachusetts_, Mordred," Arthur said patiently. "Not New York."

"Can I take the underground, I mean the subway, to get there?"

Both Arthur and Merlin bit their lips to keep from laughing, or even smiling, at the thought of taking a subway to Massachusetts. As Mordred's stare was almost fierce in its intensity, they made an effort not to appear amused.

"Mordred," Merlin said carefully, meeting the boy's eyes. "There's no question you'll make a brilliant scientist. Or conservator. Or whatever you decide to do. I have every confidence in you. But I think you'll need to wait a bit before you can get a job in a museum."

If Mordred was disappointed he did not show it, although some of the intensity faded from his expression, and he said simply, "Okay." Then, "Mum says you're to come downstairs. Morgana will be here any moment."

"Right," said Arthur encouragingly. As they trooped out of Merlin's bedroom, he turned his head and spoke very quietly. "MIT! I didn't realize he was quite so ambitious."

"Be thankful he didn't ask to go to Cal Tech," replied Merlin, his lips quivering with suppressed laughter. "Imgine trying to get there by subway."

"God knows what he's going to make of Leon," Arthur murmured as they followed the youngest Pendragon down the stairs. "D'you suppose he'll be jealous of him? He likes having Morgana to himself."

"I don't know...erm, how did this vacation get so complicated?" was Merlin's entirely unhelpful reply.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The table in the formal dining room was round. To be specific, it was usually round, but because of the guests, an extra leaf had been added to the center, so that it was now an elongated oval. There was an elegant floral centerpiece, created earlier that day by Elaine, flanked by two heavy Georgian candelabras of silver. A dizzying lineup of forks, knives, and spoons met Merlin's eye as he stared at his plate, and he hoped that he wouldn't make a complete ass of himself by using the wrong ones at the wrong time.

"I thought Uther said informal," he hissed at Arthur under his breath. "Why the barrage of cutlery? The table looks like a castle armory for Lilliputians."

Arthur snorted with laughter, nearly spilling his drink.

"I can get through this," Merlin continued through clenched teeth. "I know I can."

"You're braver than you look," Arthur offered in a cheerful voice, and Merlin glared at him.

Morgana had arrived promptly at seven, and had been welcomed with a warm embrace by her mother and a kiss on the forehead from Uther. Mordred, more demonstrative than Merlin had ever seen him, gave her a prodigious hug. Leon followed behind her, and Merlin had to admire his cool as he manfully shook hands with Uther and bent his head politely as he was introduced to Elaine. Mordred he remembered from the boy's visit to New York with Uther, just before the previous winter holiday, and he greeted him with a solemn handshake, handing over, at the same time, a box a little smaller than a loaf of bread.

"What's in there?" Merlin asked in a whisper.

"About ten different kinds of choc bars," Leon whispered back.

They spent the next half hour making pleasant small talk in the parlour, where Leon admired the paintings on the walls and explained to Uther how English literature was taught in American universities. (Although a Brit by birth, much of his education, it appeared, had taken place in the States.) Morgana watched this exchange through narrowed eyes, looking pleased when Uther replied to his comments with a mixture of surprise and grudging respect. Mordred did his best to monopolize his half-sister, sitting next to her and responding to her questions about school with detailed and very precisely worded answers. To Merlin's relief, Elaine came over and engaged him in a conversation about his own schooldays, and asked him whether living in New York had caused a great deal of culture shock.

In spite of Merlin's anxiety over the place settings at the table (he could see Arthur repressing a laugh when he used the wrong fork for the salad), dinner went quite smoothly until it was nearly over. Morgana and her mother had chatted about fashions, Arthur and Leon had a manly talk about football, and how American football should be called something else, and Mordred gave Uther a verbal list of reasons why he should live in New York with one or the other of his siblings.

Then Uther had to go and bring up the subject of museum entrance fees, and whether or not the Institute should charge extra for admission to special exhibitions, and Morgana reacted with predictable anger.

"I don't see why we have to go copying other institutions and charging absurd prices to look at art," she snapped. "How elitist, to make certain that the only people who can visit us are people with money to throw around. What about students, and people who are interested but not well-to-do?"

"Morgana," said Uther, raising his voice. "It is not our business to worry about the average person's cost of living in New York City."

"Of course it isn't," Morgana replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's why so many people are accusing museum administrators of being out of touch with current events, raising the entrance fees to ridiculous levels." Her voice, like Uther's, had gotten much louder.

"Morgana," said Uther, sternly.

"Oh dear," said Elaine.

"Erm," said Merlin, praying that nobody was going to ask for his opinion. Fortunately, they appeared to have fallen into a customary family pattern of snarky comments, criticism, and irritated retorts, leaving everyone else (thankfully) out in the cold. This was, without doubt, the closest thing to a Pendragon clan row that Merlin had yet witnessed. He, like Leon, chose to remain diplomatically silent as their table-mates bickered with one another. Mordred sat quietly, looking from one family member to the next with a knowing and slightly exasperated air, but made no effort to join in the general melee.

"There is no reason why we shouldn't raise the admission fee," Uther insisted, slapping the tabletop for emphasis. "We're not a charitable institution. Our costs go up, so our fees should as well."

"We can afford a little charity," Morgana essayed sharply. "Sometimes you have to do what you think is right."

"And the cost of the new high-tech alarm system we're thinking of installing next year?" Uther asked smoothly.

"Our motion detectors are still perfectly good," Morgana responded. "And they're practically new. We only need to add one or two for the front hall. I've been studying all of our attendance stats, and according to the figures I've come up with, there is simply no reason why we need an entirely new alarm system."

"Thank you, Miss Granger," said Arthur, channeling Alan Rickman. "That will be all, if you don't mind."

"Merlin!" Morgana snapped. "Tell him I'm right."

"Eff Em El," Merlin muttered into his wine glass.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once pudding had been consumed, with everybody glaring at each other over their dessert spoons, they moved on, not to the parlour but to Uther's library, which was spacious enough for the entire group to sit comfortably, sip brandy or coffee, and cool off. Merlin and Leon exchanged uneasy glances, but it appeared that this sort of tiff was nothing out of the ordinary, if one's name was Pendragon, and within minutes the disagreements were shunted aside. (Morgana's surname was definitely_ not_ Pendragon, but, as Uther's stepdaughter, she was an honorary family member.) Talk turned to Cornelius Sigan's tapestry, and the possibility that it would be donated to the Institute.

"I've send John an email about the necessary insurance coverage, should the arrangement go through," Uther sighed. "He simply replied that he was happy we weren't buying the damn thing."

John was John H. Draca, the Institute's offsite treasurer (his official title was Director of Finance) who visited New York only periodically. He was a rather irascible fellow, with degrees in both accounting and law, and was a partner in a well-known law firm. Because of his fiery temper - he was forever chiding the museum staff, via telephone and email, about their unnecessary use of funds - and because he had a pilot's license and owned a small Cessna four-seater jet, he was known at the Institute as "The Great Dragon." According to Arthur, he possessed a beautiful townhouse in Washington D.C. and ate at very expensive, high-end restaurants, but Merlin liked to say that he really lived in a cave where he gnawed on the bones of freshly-killed fellow lawyers.

To add to everything else, John had one of those voices that was truly unmistakable. Every time Arthur picked up the telephone and heard it, he automatically scanned his desk for a bottle of aspirin.

Morgana seemed to have put aside her concern about museum entrance fees, and was rattling off the latest gossip about Cornelius Sigan. She addressed most of her remarks to Merlin, as he and Arthur would be visiting the collector in two days' time, and Arthur had wandered over to the table-tennis table at the other end of the room. Elaine was trying to talk Mordred into going upstairs to bed, and Uther was sitting in his desk chair, eyes half-closed, nursing a cup of coffee.

"Merlin, are you listening?" Morgana asked severely.

Merlin had been listening carefully to Morgana, and paying attention, but now his eyes were on Arthur, who was across the room, joking with Leon and challenging him to a game of table tennis. It was, in fact, difficult for him _not_ to watch Arthur...the way he gestured with his hands as he talked, the way he shoved the hair off his forehead, impatiently, with the back of his hand, or tapped the side of his nose with his thumb, the way he tossed his head back when he laughed.

"Merlin!" said Morgana loudly, and he actual started, before turning to face her.

"I don't know which of you is the more besotted," she said with an evil smirk, and went off to watch her stepbrother demolish first Leon and then Uther with several quick serves.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin was almost asleep that night when his door squeaked open and Arthur edged his way through it.

He didn't think he had ever attended a more mentally exhausting dinner. By the time Morgana and Leon took their leave ("Leon's seeing me back to the hotel," Morgana announced loudly, and Arthur rolled his eyes), he felt ready to excuse himself and make a bolt for his guest room. After a quick shower he flung himself onto his bed, wondering if he would be able to sleep late the next day, and was nearly unconscious when Arthur made his appearance.

Arthur got into the bed beside him (after setting Mordred's Father Detector on the bedside table), and Merlin managed to open one eye, groggily, as he was pulled into his embrace. He was hoping that Arthur wasn't going to be too demanding – he was just _so_ tired – and although he wanted Arthur, always wanted him, he just didn't think he could…

"Sleep, Merlin," Arthur whispered, in such a gentle voice that if Merlin hadn't been nearly comatose he would have made some sort of astonished comment in reply. "I know you're exhausted; I could see it after dinner." He settled Merlin's head securely on his shoulder, and tucked the sheet around him.

"Nrgh," said Merlin, closing his eyes, burrowing against Arthur's warmth and sliding one arm across his chest. Minutes later Arthur could feel his breathing slow and settle into the easy rhythm of sleep. He himself was aroused, but he would not pursue anything whilst Merlin was so fatigued…they could always make up for it later, couldn't they? In the meantime, this was rather pleasant, a bit like falling asleep with a life-sized, _bony _teddy bear in his arms. There was no need to count sheep…he was tired himself…he could count Merlin's _ribs_ instead…

By the time Uther's footsteps went past Merlin's door, they were both sleeping soundly. It was fortunate that he did not pause on his way to the master bedroom, as Arthur had completely forgotten to turn Mordred's Detector on.

* * *

**MIT (Massachusetts Institute of Technology) is a distinguished research university specializing in science, located in Cambridge, not far from Harvard University.**

**Cal Tech (California Institute of Technology) is another famous American research university with a focus on science and engineering, located in Pasadena.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Dinner With the Raven**

"Have you got a wedding present for Gwen and Lance?" Leon asked casually. "I don't have a clue...I don't know what they'd like."

It was Sunday, late afternoon, and raining. Leon had spent most of the day with his family, and Morgana had visited one museum after the next, before returning to the hotel. Now they were sitting together on that slippery sofa, whilst Arthur sprawled in an armchair, facing them. Merlin sat in another armchair, saying little, listening to Morgana talk about Gwen's bridal shower and how lovely it had been, and Leon mumble about the need to find an appropriate wedding gift. He was beginning to feel sleepy again, although he had slept well and soundly, waking a little after dawn to find himself tangled with Arthur's body and half-smothered by pillows.

"I can't believe they finally set a wedding date - I was betting on the engagement lasting at least another year," Arthur commented with a rueful grin. "But I thoroughly approve. They spend all of their time together as it is, they might as well make it official. And Lance is a good man." The others noted the almost brotherly tone of Arthur's voice; after all these years he still felt protective of Gwen, and (ever since their brief university fling morphed into a genuine friendship) had always been concerned for her well-being, evaluating her subsequent boyfriends with a critical eye, to Gwen's amusement and occasional chagrin.

"Gwen'll never have to worry about him cheating, anyway," Leon murmured. "Not Lance. He's far too honorable. He's the only person I've ever met about whom I think I can use the phrase 'nobility of soul.' I mean, he can't even tell a tiny lie - like 'I didn't eat the last biscuit, guys' - without blushing and feeling guilty, and trying to make amends."

"And he's not self-righteous about it, either," Morgana added. "Unlike some people I could name. Well, Gwen's a lucky girl. Have you got them a wedding present, Arthur?"

"Merlin found one," Arthur said, tilting his chin in Merlin's direction. "A nice bit of porcelain. Gwen will love it, and even if Lance doesn't, he's way too polite and kind to say so."

Conversation became desultory after that, as Morgana began to read over the notes she had taken at various museum exhibitions, and Arthur and Leon spoke in undertones about Leon's job prospects in the event that Uther decided to sack him. It didn't seem likely that Uther would actually do this, as he had no notion of how close he and Morgana had become, but Leon said that it made sense to plan for the future (as Uther would, at some point, definitely find out). Merlin, for his part, sat yawning in his armchair, listening to raindrops hitting the windowsill, wondering how his colleagues at the Institute were getting on, whether Gaius had given his assignments to somebody else, and what Will was doing with Lord Moldywart.

"Would you like some coffee, Merlin?" Morgana asked solicitously.

"Yes, thanks," replied Merlin, rubbing his eyes. After waking that morning, he had spent long, drowsy, delicious minutes watching the post-dawn light turn Arthur's hair everything from pale gold to an almost fiery copper; then, when Arthur's eyes opened, he had grinned impishly and leaped out of bed before Arthur could roll over and pin him.

Morgana interrupted Merlin's memory replay by setting a steaming cup of coffee on the lamp table by his chair.

"I can guess what _you're_ thinking about," she said in a teasing voice, her eyes following his unintentional glance in Arthur's direction.

"Yeah," Merlin replied cheerfully. "I was just thinking that after what you told me last night, dinner with Mr Sigan should be a true monument to twenty-first-century Surrealism."

"_What_!" exploded Morgana in a baffled voice, looking at him as though he had just said something in Tibetan or Swahili. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Merlin didn't either; he had simply made it up.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"We'll be back in New York in a week," Arthur said quietly to Morgana as he read over her museum notes. "I don't imagine the place has fallen into ruin without us."

"Hardly," sniffed Morgana, tossing her head. "The Institute is managing without you quite nicely, thanks very much. Attendance hasn't declined, so we know that your fanclub of young ladies hasn't stopped coming to he museum just because you're not there. Lance's new installation of swords and helmets looks wonderful, and the manuscript display in Gallery One got written up in the newspapers. Gaius misses Merlin, of course. I think he genuinely regards him as the son he never had."

"Great," murmured Arthur, handing Morgana's notes back to her. "I'm happy to hear the museum is still standing. And I'm sure our colleagues are dying for me to come back and whip them all into shape."

"You're not whipping anybody," Morgana stated, only moderately amused. "Don't start talking like your father. Now, Arthur, don't scowl at me, you know what I'm talking about. If you ever turned out to be as big a bully as he is, I'd never speak to you again."

"I don't bully my staff," Arthur insisted, frowning. "That is, not really. Or if I do, it's only in fun. I _certainly_ can't bully you. You've always been impossible. But I make allowances for you, because I can see through the nasty things you say to me, and know that deep down inside you really like me."

"Less and less by the second," Morgana snapped.

"That's a perfect example," Arthur said, grinning. "You see?"

"You're fortunate Merlin is the way he is," Morgana went on, ignoring her stepbrother's smug expression. "I mean, he's generally self-effacing and modest, and he _lets_ you bully him a bit from time to time, but he's not submissive. That is, he knows how to stand up for himself when he has to. And he doesn't hesitate to tell you exactly what he thinks of you."

Arthur said nothing, remembering several of his and Merlin's very loud arguments over various museum-related issues.

"I think it's great that he won't lie down - metaphorically speaking, of course - and let you walk all over him," Morgana continued, warming to her subject. Arthur could see that she was prepared to go on about this for some time, so he deliberately glanced at his watch and then leapt to his feet.

"Must go," he said, looking about for his umbrella. "And you need to pack for tomorrow."

"I'm stopping by the house tonight, for coffee, after dinner," Morgana announced as Arthur located his umbrella under the sofa, and Merlin's under the Turkish carpet ("How did it get there, _Mer_lin?"). "I want to say goodbye to Mum and to Mordred. Leon's going to go see his sister and her husband, at the same time."

"Great," Arthur murmured heroically. "Just no more arguments with Father about the blasted admission policy. You know I agree with you on that one, and we'll win in the end, but there's no need to get him agitated. Merlin! Stop staring at nothing and get up. I'll see if we can find a taxi."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sunday evening went smoothly and there were no arguments between Uther and Morgana, although she did send irritated glances in his direction every time he spoke about the Institute. ("Well done," Arthur said under his breath as she prepared to leave. "Oh shut up!" she muttered sharply, as he held the door open for her.) On Monday, Arthur and Merlin went to her hotel to see her and Leon off, and Morgana's "Good luck tonight, with Sigan," brought the slightest frown to Arthur's face before he smiled, clapped Leon on the shoulder, and saw them both into a cab.

"Poor Mordred," he said to Merlin as they headed back to Kensington to prepare for Sigan's dinner. "He genuinely does miss her. I'm beginning to think it wouldn't be so bad for him to come to New York...so long as he's living with her, not us."

When they arrived at the house, they found Uther ensconced in his study, going over some papers, whilst Elaine bustled about upstairs, looking for a missing pair of earrings and telling Mordred to hurry up and get dressed for the theatre.

"What are you going to see?" Merlin asked as they passed her in the hall.

"A Midsummer Night's Dream," was her flustered response. "If I can get him to change his shoes. No, Mordred, I don't care if your sister brought those from New York, you're not to wear them to the theatre. I trust you'll have a lovely evening with Cornelius and Enid, Merlin. Arthur, please stop making faces. There's no reason to influence Merlin's opinion; let him make his own judgement. I do hope Morgana has a good flight. She looked so tired last night, poor darling. I quite like her young man, don't you?"

"A Midsummer Night's Dream," Arthur murmured pensively as they paused at the door to Merlin's room. "I was in that at school. I had the biggest crush on my drama teacher, so I kept staring at her and forgetting my lines."

"Oh?" Merlin said, pausing on the threshold. "What role did you have?"

Arthur bit his lip. "I, um, played Bottom. Which wasn't as bad as it sounds, because I got to crawl on all fours near Titania's legs. Merlin, what _are_ you laughing at?"

"The thought of you with a pair of donkey ears," replied Merlin, cackling helplessly. "And the thought of you being called Bottom."

He dodged into his room and closed the door before Arthur could swat him across the head.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur had described Cornelius Sigan's home as a gloomy Victorian pile, and upon seeing it Merlin was inclined to agree with him. It was a large residence, a heavy and imposing example of Victorian Gothic, with stained glass in the doors and some of the windows, and something resembling an ornamental turret.

"I hear he was quite the lad in his youth," Arthur muttered, glowering at the mansion as if he knew it housed a horde of gigantic spiders. "After he made his first billion he became a regular culture maven. Began wearing white suits and collecting art and artifacts, most of which he knew nothing about. To give him credit, though, he does have a good eye for what's rare and beautiful."

"Yes," said Merlin, looking his Assistant Director in the face. "So I understand."

Arthur flushed a little and looked annoyed. "I should never have told you about that," he said, lips twitching. "I may have been imagining things. After all, he never put a hand on me. He was only _looking_. And I was only sixteen; I probably_ was_ imagining things. Even at that age, I could have thrashed him without difficulty if he had...had tried anything."

"You shouldn't worry," Merlin said, shrugging. "If he tries anything. I'm going to be at your side, like I always am, protecting you."

"God help me," was Arthur's reply as his eyes rolled upward. Ignoring his conservator's cheeky grin, he marched him grimly towards the front door, but as he paused to ring the doorbell, he felt Merlin's fingertips trail lightly along his wrist and the back of his hand.

"This place is like something out of the Addams Family," whispered Merlin. "Or a really bad made-for-television movie about haunted houses."

The rain had let up, but the sky was still overcast, and in the fitful light the stained glass in the front door transome shone an ominous dark purple. When the door opened, Cornelius Sigan himself was standing there, surprising Arthur, who had expected to see a butler or a housekeeper at the very least.

"Ah, Arthur and Mr Emrys," said the entrepreneur in his faintly raspy voice, smiling. "And you're on time. I do like that. Come in, please."

The front hall was dark, with dark wood-paneled walls, but their host guided them into a sitting room that was well lit by lamps shaded with more stained glass, Tiffany-style, and offered to pour them drinks.

"Won't Mrs Sigan be joining us?" Merlin ventured to say after a while, looking curiously around the room. Almost every available surface was covered with knicknacks, small objects like miniature bronze sculptures, enameled picture frames, silver potpourri bowls, crystal paperweights, eighteenth and nineteenth century porcelain figurines.

"The dear girl's visiting her mother in Chelsea," Sigan murmured, his mildly protruberant eyes skimming Merlin's face. "She hasn't been well. Her mother, I mean."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Merlin said politely, edging backward and sitting down on a narrow wooden chair he thought might be Elizabethan. He had no desire to seat himself on the sofa, where Sigan could possibly sit next to him. Arthur appeared to have had the same thought, because he had situated himself in an armchair next to the massive fireplace with it's carved stone mantelpiece.

"I thought we'd have dinner first, and look at the tapestry after," Sigan was saying, eyeing Arthur as though he were a particularly fine piece of sculpture up for auction. "I've had it hung in my display room, next to the library. Now, give me some news of New York. And how is dear Morgana?"

Arthur refrained from telling him that dear Morgana had spent the past three days in London, and had only just left for the States.

"She's very well," he replied, almost curtly, studiously adjusting his cufflinks. Merlin looked down at his own - he had borrowed them from Arthur, and wondered what on earth they were going to talk about over dinner. Hopefully they would stick to the subject of the tapestry, and whether or not it would be coming to the Institute.

"Dinner is served, sir," said a dark-suited man from the doorway, and Sigan smiled.

"Thank you, Alvarr," he said, standing and turning to his guests. "Shall we? I understand you're a vegetarian, Mr Emrys, I mean Merlin. You did tell me I could call you Merlin, didn't you? I hope you like roasted vegetables. I had them sent directly from the country this morning. This way, gentlemen, please."

"Well!" whispered Merlin as he followed in Sigan's wake. "What did you think he'd be serving us, Arthur?"

"Four-and-twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie," Arthur hissed back. "I'll bet he's always loved that nursery rhyme. Where else d'you suppose he got his airline's symbol from? Watch it, Merlin, don't trip over the footstool. If you get carted off to hospital with a broken leg, I'm going with you. I refuse to have dinner with Sigan on my own. I'd lose my appetite, and his precious country vegetables would be wasted. Not that I'd care, but I really don't fancy a meal alone with that man. I'd be tempted to spear him with his own fork, and Morgana would come and laugh at me in jail."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Nobleman or Servant? Or, How to Get Excited By A Medieval Tapestry**

Cornelius Sigan's dining room boasted a high ceiling and more dark, wooden panels on the walls. The panels looked to Merlin like sixteenth-century linenfold, similar examples of which he remembered from one of the dining halls at Cambridge. He could see Arthur eyeing them appreciatively, and indeed they were very fine, although they made the room seem even darker than it actually was.

There was some subtle, electric lighting hidden away somewhere, but there were also candles on the table. Alvarr brought in their food, silent and unobtrusive, serving them from the left in proper fashion, and retreating as quietly as he had come in. Merlin found all of this formality mildly intimidating (even at Uther's they had passed around the serving plates themselves), but he sat stiffly, murmured complimentay things about the meal, and waited for their host to get round to discussing the object they had come to examine.

Arthur and Sigan ate lamb with mint sauce, baby potatoes, and salad. Merlin's roasted vegetables were excellent, but he barely noticed, so intent was he on watching Sigan. Conversation was quite casual until the main course had been cleared away and they were presented with a choice between Stilton with walnuts and fresh fruit.

"Now," said Sigan, raising his head, his lips curving upward. Merlin noticed a smear of emerald-green mint sauce, like a blob of Kryptonite, on his little Van Dyke beard, and had to dig his fingers into his knee to keep from laughing. Arthur's expression was solemn and businesslike, but he must have sensed Merlin's amusement because he aimed a warning look at him from across the table.

"The tapestry," Sigan continued, lifting his linen napkin and wiping away the mint sauce. Merlin gave a strangled cough, and his host turned to look at him questioningly.

"Sorry," Merlin mumbled apologetically, scrambling for a fitting excuse. "Plant allergies, I think."

"Shall I have this removed?" Sigan asked, pointing to the enormous arrangement of lilies that stood in the center of the table.

"Oh - no, no, let it stay. I'm sure it's not that," babbled Merlin, and Arthur gave him a faintly exasperated look, softened with just the hint of a smile. Merlin retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and coughed industriously into it.

"The tapestry," Sigan said smoothly, looking from one of his guests to the other. "I've been thinking that it would be an excellent addition to your collection. You have nothing like it, and it would look well in any of your galleries. It's a remarkable piece; I believe it dates to roughly the same period as the 'Lady and the Unicorn' tapestries in the Musee de Cluny, in Paris."*

"I'm anxious to see it," Arthur said gravely, and Sigan gave him an approving look.

"Yes, I believe you'll both find it quite...intriguing," he commented, and then turned to his Stilton.

Merlin was thinking that their host was drawing things out way too much, when Sigan finally stood up and led the way out of the dark dining room, down a dark corridor, and into a dark library, paneled with more wood. There were bookshelves that reached all the way to the darkness near the ceiling, and a massive desk (why did everything in this house have to be so bloody huge?) piled with papers. A door was set into the wall behind the desk, and Sigan opened it to reveal a good-sized gallery space, in which they could see a number of sculptures, cases filled with small, glittering objects, and several things hanging on the walls.

Sigan switched on the lights and his guests blinked in the sudden brightness. Their host turned the brightness down a little, and stood back to let them look their fill.

"This isn't where I keep the entire collection, naturally," he said blandly. "Most of the things are in a specially constructed, climate-controlled storage area at the back of the house. I display a few objects in this room, though, for my friends to enjoy when they come to visit."

As Arthur had told Merlin that long ago evening at The Griffin, there wasn't much rhyme or reason to Sigan's collecting, no single unifying theme, no one part of the world as a place of origin for the works of art. There was a wood sculpture of an angel that looked to be thirteenth-century French. A stone buddha, undoubtedly Southeast Asian. Some Russian enamels that looked frighteningly like Faberge. Some framed medieval manuscript paintings (nearly as fine as the examples at the Institute), and a heavy, leather-covered book - a Bestiary by Somebody-or-other of Cambria. And hanging on the walls, three tapestries. One was quite small, probably a fragment, another extremely dark (Gwen would say it was in desperate need of cleaning). The third, which was facing them, was well lit, and in excellent condition. Arthur drew in his breath as he saw it, and out of the corner of his eye he caught Sigan's satisfied grin.

The fax they had received in Ealdor hadn't done the tapestry justice. It was a wide composition woven in rich colors of wool and silk, displaying seven figures against a top-to-bottom background of small flowers and flowering plants, known as _mille-fleurs_, that was typical of late medieval tapestry work. The three central figures were noblewomen, exquisitely clad in jeweled cotes and surcoats, with hanging sleeves; one wore a French hood over her hair. They were flanked by two male figures on the left side, another two on the right. Two of the four men were clearly high-ranking courtiers; one appeared to be a knight, wearing a suit of armor and no helmet. But it was the figure to his right that drew Arthur's eye instantly. It was that of a young man, although whether he was a nobleman or an attendant was difficult to say. He wore the simple cotte and hose of a manservant, but they were nearly as richly jeweled as the garments of the ladies. His figure was slim, almost frail, and his hair was dark, his face narrow and rather boyish, with dark-browed eyes above what appeared to be high cheekbones. His face was turned in a three-quarter view, but there was the definite suggestion of a prominent ear.

"God, Merlin," Arthur said, without thinking. "That's you, to the life. Or almost."

Sigan's smile had become even broader.

"Oh," said Merlin, suddenly unable to think of anything intelligent to say. "I, erm, can't believe it. But it doesn't look, erm, _exactly_ like me."

"Close enough," replied Arthur, staring. His eyes had grown round with amazement. "I don't want to pry, Cornelius, but for how long has this been in your collection?"

"Oh, perhaps fifteen years?" their host replied, waving his hands vaguely. "I can't recall. I had it from a dealer who specialized in textiles. This was obviously woven in Flanders, sometime in the fifteenth century, but the design may have been made in Paris. I don't know why I never had it published. Didn't want scholars swarming all over my home, and museums pestering me to loan to to them, I suppose."

Arthur swallowed. "It's very impressive," he said quietly. "Beautiful. Magnificent. As you said, it would look...very handsome in any of our galleries. Merlin, I can't believe how...nice you look in medieval clothing."

"Yes, I _knew_ you would like that little coincidence," Sigan said, grinning broadly again. "Well, well. Young Mr Emrys does look charming in that, uh, medieval gear. In fact, you would both look quite wonderful in medieval or Renaissance costumes. I must give a fancy dress ball some day."

Arthur and Merlin exchanged glances behind the collector's back.

"I can just picture it in my mind," Sigan went on, turning to face them and gesturing in the general direction of Arthur's midsection. "You would look splendid in armor, Arthur, but I think I'd prefer to see you in one of those short Italian Renaissance tunics, with contrasting hose..."

Arthur pressed his lips together and shot Merlin another look.

"…and a codpiece," Sigan continued, and for a moment Arthur thought he was going to be sick.

Sigan was looking from one guest to the other with a pleased expression, rubbing his hands together and smiling. His glance was perhaps more lingering than it could have been. Merlin had the horrible feeling that the lanky collector was imagining an Arthur-Merlin sandwich, with Sigan himself in the middle.

"Your father says this is matchless," Sigan mumured, handing Arthur a magnifying glass. "Just take a look at that weave. Superb craftsmanship. He agrees that it would compliment your current collection of tapestries admirably."

He relinquished the magnifying glass to Arthur and drew his hand back, his fingers lightly brushing Merlin's arm as he did so.

"We only have a few tapestries, most of them fragments," Arthur said, his mouth suddenly dry. "But we do have a number of other textiles."

"I suppose I should really keep this here," Sigan said, shaking his head ruefully. "Not send it off to America. I thought of donating it to the British Museum. But Uther's been after me for years, and I would hate to disappoint him."

Arthur was dying to tell him to stop his yammering and simply tell them what conditions he wanted before making the tapestry over to the Institute as a gift. But for the sake of good manners he kept his expression friendly and interested, and merely raised his eyebrows.

"There are one or two things I had in mind to ask you," the collector said placidly, "but I think that can wait until tomorrow. Would you care to come back for tea in the afternoon? I can discuss terms with you then. In the meantime, you can discuss this object with your father, or with your staff at the Institute, if you like."

Arthur took a deep breath. "Thank you," he answered calmly, pleased to notice that his voice was still steady. "We should like that. And thank you for this opportunity. I don't think I've ever seen a finer piece."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I told you he was eccentric," Arthur groaned as soon as he and Merlin were a block or so away from the Sigan residence.

"Eccentric?" Merlin asked, wrinkling his forehead. "What about simply wierd?"

"I could really use a drink," Arthur replied, looking queasy. "The tapestry's superb, but I don't think anybody's ever made me feel so uncomfortable in my life."

"Now I understand what you meant when you first told me about him," Merlin said. "He is a bit bizarre. And yeah, the way he looks at you is, erm, _creepy_?"

"He wasn't just looking at me," Arthur muttered gloomily. "I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't fancy you as well."

Merlin made vague throwing-up noises, like a child ordered to do five hours of homework, and Arthur laughed.

"That tapestry, though," he murmured, and Merlin saw his expression soften. "It really is remarkable how much that figure looks like you."

It did not take them long to walk back to Uther's house, and by the time they got there Merlin could see exactly what Arthur had in mind. He was smiling a little, humming from time to time, and his eyes kept returning to Merlin's face. It was no surprise, therefore, when they reached the top of the stairs and Merlin turned in the direction of his bedroom, that Arthur should lean into him a little, bringing his lips close to his ear.

"I hope the batteries in Mordred's contraption are still working," he whispered. "Because unless you have some objection, I think we are going to need it."

Merlin took a deep breath; then he heard Uther's voice somewhere on the stairs, so he simply nodded his head. Arthur turned away quickly and strode down the hall, leaving Merlin to slip into his room, hands shaking a little, and head for the shower.

He was sitting up in bed when Arthur entered the room perhaps forty minutes later, his mind bubbling with questions about Cornelius Sigan's tapestry and whether Arthur thought he was really going to give it to the Institute, or just be a bloody great tease about it. But Arthur was clearly not there to be talked at, nor did he want to talk. He slid into the bed, pushing Merlin down, and when Merlin began to speak Arthur took his hand and placed it on himself to indicate his state of extreme urgency.

"Apparently you get turned on by Merlins in wool, silk, and gold thread," Merlin managed to say between kisses. "I didn't know my woven image could be so titillating."

"Mmmph," replied his Assistant Director, mouthing his way from the edge of Merlin's jaw down the long, pale line of his throat. Then he returned to Merlin's lips, but for some reason they suddenly found the notion of being aroused by a medieval tapestry extremely funny. Consequently they began to snigger a little, so the kisses got very messy and they had to keep stopping to allow for gusts of laughter, whilst their legs somehow became interlaced.

"Ow!" panted Arthur, cackling and wincing at the same time. "Watch out for my ribs. Your elbows, _Mer_lin! You're positively dangerous."

"I have elbows of death," Merlin gasped, tears of laughter running down his face. "They're registered with the government as lethal weapons. Like the rest of me...ooof!" Arthur had just hit him softly in the face with a pillow. Then he rolled on top, sputtering, his chest heaving.

"Gerroff," said Merlin indistinctly, attempting to roll them back.

They spent the next several minutes wrestling and laughing uncontrollably into each other's hair, trying not to make any noise and failing miserably. They made up utterly stupid scenarios about pornographic tapestries and how members of the Weavers' Guild must have had bondage sex, tying each other up with the loom threads; they became nearly hysterical over Sigan's beard and the mint sauce. The sillier they became the harder they laughed, until Arthur was doubled over, his face as awash with tears as Merlin's, and it finally got to the point where all Merlin had to do was open his mouth and Arthur would promptly dissolve into mirth. This seemed rather uncharacteristic of the Institute's Assistant Director, but it occurred to Merlin that he was doing his best to put aside the uneasy feelings inspired by Sigan's dinner.

However, they were laughing so hard that they found themselves in a completely _deflated_ state.

"This will _not_ do," Arthur said in an agonized whisper, forcing himself to look serious and curling his hand around Merlin in a very determined manner. Merlin returned the favor, but moments later they were roaring again, this time using pillows to muffle the sound.

"Now I know what the phrase 'limp with laughter' means," Arthur said in despair, and that set them off instantly.

When they had howled themselves into a state of exhaustion, they dropped off into a profound and restful sleep.

Sometime a little before dawn, Merlin woke to the warm sensation of Arthur stroking the nape of his neck, and moments later his arms wrapped around Merlin's chest from behind. There was no laughter now, nor was there any need to speak. Merlin turned in Arthur's arms to face him, and allowed him to slide one leg between his own. By the time they were ready to sleep again, the sun was just coming up behind the neighboring buildings, and Merlin pulled the bed sheet over their heads like a tent, propping it with a bolster, to help keep out the brightness.

* * *

**The six "Lady and the Unicorn" tapestries are in the collection of the Musee de Cluny, Paris. There are many images available on the internet.**

**For those not familiar with late medieval clothing, here's a Wiki definition of the "codpiece" mentioned by Sigan:**

**_"A __codpiece__ (from __Middle English__ cod, "__scrotum__") is a covering flap or pouch that attaches to the front of the crotch of men's __trousers__ [or hose] and usually accentuates the __genital__ area. It was held closed by string ties, buttons, or other methods. It was an important item of __European__clothing__ in the 15th and 16th centuries...etc."_**

**Sometimes the codpiece was made from fabric that contrasted with, or was a different color from, the fabric of the hose. This served to accentuate that part of the male anatomy even more.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: Institute Emails**

"Cornelius rang up just now," Uther said to Arthur at lunch. They – Uther, Arthur, Merlin, Elaine, and Mordred – were sitting at the dining room table, grazing on an assortment of dishes. Uther had been out all morning, but upon returning at midday he looked quite pleased to hear that his son, and his son's conservator, had been impressed with the quality of Sigan's tapestry.

"He says you're going to see him this afternoon, to discuss conditions and so on."

"I really don't know what he's on about," said Arthur, trying not to sound irritated. "What conditions? That we only display it every second Wednesday? That it has to be guarded daily by knights in shining armor? That we have to praise him to the skies when the press asks us where we got it? As a choir sings in the background?"

Mordred sniggered, Elaine hid a smile behind her hand, and Uther looked displeased.

"That sort of levity is not going to get us anywhere," he said ponderously. "This is an important object, and we need to do our best to make certain it comes to us. Other museums and curators have been wooing Cornelius. Cenred at the National Gallery, for example, and Bayard at the V and A. Not to mention all of those American museum directors."

"Of course, Father," Arthur murmured dutifully. "Oh, I sent emails to Morgana, Gwen, and Gaius this morning, before breakfast." He had written them on his BlackBerry, sitting up in bed with Merlin, shortly before getting dressed. It had taken longer than was strictly necessary; Merlin's chin had been propped on his shoulder as he tried to read the text Arthur was typing onto his screen, Merlin's spiky hair kept tickling his cheek, and one of his hands had dropped down into Arthur's lap. "It's likely they'll have replied by now. And I did speak with Morgana, a little while ago."

"She was enthusiastic, I suppose."

"Entirely," Arthur said shortly. "She was babbling down the phone for an hour."

"Ah," said Uther, suddenly looking much more cheerful. "I'll go and see if they've sent any messages to me." He stood up and then suddenly directed a look at Merlin. "I imagine you noticed the…the resemblance."

"Erm, it took me by surprise," Merlin responded honestly, and Uther's brow wrinkled.

"Yes, well," he muttered, scanning Merlin's face with a judicious frown. "I've been looking at that tapestry for years, hoping that Sigan would gift it to us. It's only recently that I realized…of course, that was after I interviewed you for your present job."

Merlin remembered his interview with Uther, in London, with an inward shudder. That had been shortly before he left his small London flat for New York, and another small flat. Just before he began work at the Institute, before Arthur. Uther was still frowning, and Merlin felt a jolt of indignation.

"Of course I'm hardly the ideal model for a tapestry figure," he said, allowing his accent to become more pronounced, smiling politely, but looking the senior Pendragon straight in the eye.

Uther looked mildly surprised but clearly did not know what to say in response. Instead, he disappeared into his study and Merlin breathed an inaudible sigh of relief.

"A pity we couldn't bring some of Leon's security guards with us to Sigan's, this evening," he said quietly to Arthur.

Arthur mumbled "Oh bugger it," without meaning for anybody else to hear, but evidently Mordred had, because he actually laughed out loud.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There were several emails from the Institute waiting for Arthur, and he opened them knowing more or less what they would say.

_Stepbrother dear, I hope the Kensington house hasn't exploded in my absence. I don't know that I particularly care for the place, and hope they finish renovating our own home soon. Thanks for ringing me earlier, I agree that Sigan's tapestry would look well in Gallery Four. With the public entering from the "garden court,"__ the effect would be splendid. When does the gift become official? We'll need an independent appraisal, for insurance purposes. How was your dinner with the odd duck? I've never been to his home, but I always imagined that it looks like a mausoleum. Was his wife her usual chatty self? I'll bet hubby dresses up in her lacy knickers. Needless to say, you're not to show this to Uther. Give my love to Mordred. Morgana._

Gaius' email was a bit more to the point, although Arthur could tell that he had written it before his afternoon tea.

_Dear Arthur, I'm delighted to hear about the condition of the tapestry, and trust Sigan will make the gift official as soon as possible. If you have the opportunity to examine it again, do check to see whether the backing is in stable condition, as we plan to hang the piece soon after its arrival. You can ask Merlin for his opinion. It's been a trying day, as the gold leaf is flaking on one of our psalters, and somebody has made off with my best magnifying glass. __**Whoever stole it should be hanged, flogged, and hanged again**__. Gaius._

There was a brief message from Gwen.

_Dear Arthur, So glad to hear about the tapestry. I had a look at the photo with Gaius' best glass, and that figure (although it's a bit difficult to see in Sigan's emailed image) does actually look like Merlin. How amazing. Please do give me a report on the condition of the backing. My love to you and Merlin, hope you're having a lovely time in London. Gwen._

Even more brief was a note from Will.

_Arthur, Merlin: Excellent tapestry. Not my area of expertise, but I can see it's in fine condition. Check Sigan's records for insect damage. Looked at photo with Gaius' big magnifying glass, and see no problematic areas. Will._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Tea at the Sigan residence would probably be informal, Merlin decided, staring at the small selection of clothing he had brought from New York. He had hung several garments in the wardrobe, to get the wrinkles out. Now he was having difficulty determining which of these would be appropriate.

"_Mer_lin," came Arthur's voice from outside the door. "I hope you're wearing something presentable."

"No," Merlin shouted. "I'm wearing sackcloth and ashes."

"We're leaving in half an hour, _Mer_lin," Arthur said, pushing the door open a little, putting his head through the opening, and running his eyes over his glowering conservator. "For pity's sake, not that striped rugby shirt."

"I was just about to change it," said Merlin.

"Wear the nice bluish, greenish thing, the shirt you bought at Lord and Taylor."

"You mean the one you made me buy," Merlin mumbled, fishing in the wardrobe.

"And you can wear your new jacket, the one you just got."

"You mean the one you got _for_ me," Merlin said in an almost accusatory voice.

"What gratitude," Arthur said, grinning. "You could at least say thank you."

"I believe I already thanked you," Merlin replied, eyes narrowed. "Without words. But if you really want the words, then thank you very much, Arthur, for an elegant and fashionable article of clothing that I will probably wear once a year."

"Hmmm," said Arthur, musingly. "I would have said, thank you from the bottom of my heart, Arthur, you are truly wonderful for attempting to make me look like a sophisticated and well-dressed member of the human race." He pulled the jacket from the wardrobe and held it out by the shoulders with both hands, dangling it in front of his reluctant conservator. Merlin eyed him with a dour expression and Arthur shook the jacket encouragingly.

"You look like a bullfighter," Merlin said with a grudging smile. "Waving his cape at a bull."

"You don't bear any resemblance to a bull," replied Arthur. "You look more like a gazelle or a fawn. Especially around the ears."

Merlin looked at him sideways as he tore off his rugby shirt.

"You can leave the jeans on," Arthur said consolingly. "Let's see how the jacket looks with that other shirt. Bloody hell! Where did I put my wallet? Not that it matters; I'm extremely short of cash."

"Don't look at me," Merlin retorted. "You could have saved a lot of money if you'd left this lovely jacket on the rack. I know I sound ungrateful, but if you'd listened to me-"

"You know me, Merlin," Arthur said smugly. "I never listen to you."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"My God," Arthur exclaimed, carefully perusing his fully-dressed conservator. "I deserve a knighthood. Go and look at yourself." He spun Merlin around and pushed him in the general direction of the mirror.

Merlin surveyed his sleekly stylish image in the mirror without a word, eyes darkening, chewing on his lower lip.

"You see?" Arthur went on, ignoring the danger signs. He delivered his next words in a high, reedy treble. "Oh thank you, Arthur, for this miraculous transformation. I am forever in your de-" The remainder of his sentence was muffled as one of Elaine's fluffy pillows made contact with his face.

"Hey," he said reprovingly, catching the pillow before it could fall to the floor. "That was my nose." Merlin's lips were trembling with the faintest hint of amusement, but Arthur stepped close and caught them with his own, closing his teeth softly on that full lower lip and putting one arm around Merlin's waist. Then he put his free hand on Merlin's thin cheek, to hold him still, and tried to coax his obstinate tongue into his own mouth. They stumbled a little, and Merlin grazed his leg against a chair, whilst Arthur's elbow made painful contact with the edge of the wardrobe.

"Just for that," Arthur murmured, "I'm going to make you dress like this for a week, when we get back to New York. Shirts and ties and jackets. I'll hide your tee shirts and hoodies and rugby shirts where you'll never find them."

"Gaius will be shocked," said Merlin a moment later, disengaging his mouth. "If he sees me dressed like that."

"No, he'll be too busy," Arthur replied, nuzzling Merlin's ear. "He's planning to hang and flog the rest of my Conservation Department."

"Don't think I won't get even with you," Merlin said before barely brushing the tip of his tongue over the pink swell of Arthur's upper lip. "You'll see." He drew away carefully and looked at Arthur with eyes gone lighter in color, and bright with some secret mirth.

In spite of his ominous words, Merlin appeared to have put aside his ruffled feelings and actually looked happy as he adjusted the new jacket, located his glasses (which he tucked into the inside pocket), and headed downstairs. Arthur could hear him whistling as he went back to his own room to hunt for his wallet and keys. Having finally found them, he descended the stairs and headed into the parlour, only to find Merlin sitting on the sofa, grinning cheerfully whilst Elaine piled photograph albums of various sizes onto the coffee table in front of him.

Arthur stared at Merlin, appalled.

Elaine looked from one to the other. "I thought I might show Merlin some of your childhood photos, Arthur. It was my idea, really."

"Don't try and cover for him," Arthur said grimly.

"You saw mine," Merlin said, looking up.

"You have no idea how embarrassing these are."

"I'll bet mine are even more embarrassing. You saw me in my nappies, me with one foot in my mouth, and me with my head in the stocks. You saw me at six months, _being bathed_, running naked on a beach at age three. How can yours be any more hideous?"

"Fair enough," Arthur conceded, but he still looked horrified.

"You said I could look at them when we got to London," Merlin said serenely. "Remember? Thanks, Elaine, I can't wait to go through these. Though it'll probably have to wait until we get back. Oh, and I don't suppose you might know where Arthur's old red velvet jacket is? He's promised to show that to me as well."


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: Sigan's Proposal**

Cornelius Sigan's statuesque wife, Enid, opened her front door at the first ring to find her husband's guests standing shoulder to shoulder, just outside.

"Lovely to see you again," she said as they stepped into the front hall, dimly lit, as they remembered, by purplish light filtering through the stained glass above the door lintel. Enid was also wearing purple (in a much less depressing shade), and the dramatically low neckline of her dress, held up by fragile spaghetti straps, hinted at the possibility of future wardrobe malfunctions _a la_ Janet Jackson.

Her husband was waiting for them in the vast parlour, a folder filled with official-looking papers on the low table before him. He rose silently as Enid ushered them in, and gestured to the huge, upholstered armchairs opposite his own. Enid then left the room and, as they had been invited for tea, Arthur half-expected her to return to see to the pouring out. However, a venerable-looking tea trolley was wheeled in by Alvarr, who proceeded to set out the little plates of cakes, cream-filled biscuits, bread and butter, and the silver tea service. He then disappeared, as silently as he had entered, and Sigan served the tea himself.

"Now," he said, once they had made a serious dent in the plates of delicacies. "I've had the tapestry appraised for monetary and insurance value. All of the photos and old condition reports are in this folder. I'm having my solicitor draw up a deed of gift, or I will do once we have settled a few questions between us."

"That's excellent," said Arthur, hoping this wasn't going to become as drawn out as their dinner conversation of the previous night. "We're very grateful. My father and I. And the rest of our staff, naturally."

He cast a covert glance at Merlin, who had gotten to his feet and was standing by the massive fireplace. He looked so uneasy yet so uncharacteristically chic in that Vivienne Westwood jacket - was it really only a few days ago that Arthur had bought it? - and that elegant blue-green shirt that Arthur had to fight back a grin. Then Merlin smiled at him and Arthur had to fight back something else...why was it that he always wanted to ravish Merlin at the most inopportune times and in the most inconvenient places?

"Let's go look at the piece once more, shall we?" Sigan murmured, rising, and leading the way to the library. Arthur could tell that Merlin was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling, and he jabbed him in the ribs with his knuckles when their host turned from them to unlock the door to his gallery space.

Once the lights had been adjusted to an appropriate dimness, Merlin made a beeline for the tapestry, a magnifying glass in hand, but Arthur stood back and admired it from across the room. There was no question about it, it was a magnificent work, and those _figures._ They had the slender, elongated quality beloved of the period, the colors were deep and rich, the garments of both females and males exquisite in detail. Arthur focused on the male standing next to the knight, the one resembling Merlin. It was uncanny how much it looked like him, lean and dark-haired, the cheekbones, and that ear! If one were to fantasize about his junior conservator in late medieval garb, jewels ornamenting the simple tunic...well! Arthur turned his head and saw that their host was also looking from the tapestry figure to the flesh and blood young man standing so close to it, a small, appreciative smile on his lips, his fingers tapping the edge of one of the display tables.

Then Sigan turned to look at Arthur, and his gaze was frankly admiring.

"What a shame we don't have a replica of the handsome Arthur Pendragon in this tapestry," he murmured suavely, and Arthur could only be grateful that he hadn't said anything about codpieces this time.

"I think it's much better off without me," Arthur said, grimacing. "But there's no question that it'll be a highlight of the Institute's collection." _Once this git stops paying me gruesome compliments and gets down to making the tapestry over to us_, he thought to himself, taking a few steps away from his host.

"The Victoria and Albert will be disappointed. Bayard had a hint that I was planning to give this to the Pendragon Institute, and he nearly had heart failure. I expect that the next time he sees either of you, he'll be ready with some poisoned champagne." He laughed at his little joke, and Arthur and Merlin exchanged looks.

"Now!" Sigan continued, his eyes scanning the display table next to him. "We can get down to business, as they say. Conditions in the deed of gift will apply to such things as humidity and light levels in your galleries, periodic condition checks, necessary conservation work, and so on. Nothing unusual there. Oh dear, look at this manuscript!"

The manuscript in question was lying on the display table. It was an Indian miniature, in colors on paper, and it was obvious that some of the colored pigments were beginning to flake.

"I don't suppose you could do anything with this at the moment, Mr Em...er, Merlin?" said the collector, looking regretfully at the delicate surface. "A pity I don't have any conservation materials here. Then you could work your magic. Your remarkable magic. The things I've heard about you!"

"Sorry," mumbled Merlin, trying not to look askance at the manuscript. "I left my tall, pointy hat at home."

Sigan laughed and clapped Merlin on the shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment, and squeezing. As their host turned away, Merlin met Arthur's frowning look with an expression of restrained annoyance, rolling his eyes, but he went back to the tapestry and examined the edges, and then the backing, with careful fingers.

"I'm hoping to expand my collection in the coming years," Sigan remarked to Arthur, taking him by the arm (Arthur winced, mentally, at his touch) and guiding him across the room until they were more or less out of Merlin's range of hearing. "It's true I have quite a few fine tapestries, but I'm moving on to other things, primarily works on paper and silk. I've recently acquired a papyrus scroll of, believe it or not, ancient Egyptian erotic drawings."

He gave a raspy chortle and Arthur suddenly felt queasy again.

"And some excellent Old Masters' sketches," Sigan finished.

Arthur nodded, assumed an expression of interest, and hoped to God the collector wasn't going to natter on like this for the rest of the afternoon.

"As for conservators," Sigan went on, "we've never had one here, I've always turned to specialists from the local museums. But I realize more and more that I need somebody who can give me more time and effort. Aredian's helped me periodically, of course, but he's primarily an objects conservator. I need someone who can work on my two dimensional pieces. I did a little search, and some interviews, this spring, and I've hired a nice young woman from Prague. She'll be employed here full time. Does very fine work. Very fine. We can even house her; there's a guest suite upstairs, cozy and private, if she doesn't fancy looking for a London apartment."

Arthur felt rather sorry for the nice young woman from Prague.

"Thing is," Sigan continued, "she can't leave her present job for six months. I'll be needing someone to fill in, during the interim."

It was beginning to dawn on Arthur that Sigan was about to suggest something truly horrible.

"It would be extremely helpful to _me_ - provided the young man's willing, of course - if I could _borrow_ your conservator for the six months. He'd be handsomely paid, _very_ handsomely, and he needn't look for a place to live. And then, when the six months are up and _my_ conservator arrives from Prague, he can go back to the Institute, _if he wants to_."

Sigan cocked his head and sent Arthur a questioning glance. "It's not exactly a condition behind the deed of gift. Let's simply say that it's a request that deserves consideration. The tapestry _probably_ will go to the Institute regardless, but it will go to you much more quickly, in fact immediately, if you're in agreement."

Arthur drew a deep breath. "Supposing Merlin doesn't want to move back to London?" he said, forcing himself to speak calmly. "He has plenty of work in New York."

"I rather fancy he'll do what you tell him to do," Sigan replied with a crocodile smile. "It would only be for half a year. And during that time, as I believe your father told you, Aredian can assist your conservation staff on a freelance basis. You do, after all, have three additional conservators."

"So...Merlin...working _here_?" It was Arthur's mind that was working, overtime. Had Sigan, Aredian, and _his father_ planned this?

"I think that's a fair exchange, don't you? And it would be temporary. A mere six months, Arthur! Far be it from me to deprive _you_ of your..." Sigan paused for dramatic effect. "Your, uh, _delightful_ junior conservator."

Arthur ignored the innuendo, assumed a blank, impersonal expression and clasped both hands behind his back so as not to wring Sigan's neck with them.

"I understand," he said coldly, but with the closest thing to a cordial smile that he could muster. "But I don't think it's possible."

"Let's ask the bo...the young man, then," Sigan replied in a friendly tone of voice, and taking his guest's elbow once again (Arthur didn't even bother to hide his instictive flinching), he walked back towards the tapestry. Merlin was engrossed in his examination of the gold thread on the ladies' garments, and nearly jumped when Sigan tapped him on the shoulder.

"Well, my friend," Sigan murmured, smiling. "I've been talking with your, ah, _Assistant Director_."

Like Arthur, Merlin paid no heed to the innuendo. "Yes? About...?"

Sigan repeated his proposal, all the while staring coyly at the tapestry rather than the young conservator, only raising his eyes to Merlin's when he had completed his explanation.

There was a rather lengthy silence.

"Erm," Merlin said in a near-whisper, turning to Arthur.

"I've told Cornelius I didn't think it would be possible," Arthur said stiffly. "As a condition of gift, it's definitely unheard of."

"Oh come now, Arthur," Sigan sighed, waving his hands melodramatically. "It may be a bit unconventional, but it's not an unreasonable request."

"No?" asked Arthur, and to his alarm Merlin detected a note of belligerance in his voice.

"The tapestry could be in the Institute's hands, so to speak, within a month."

Arthur put his hands in his pockets and stared daggers.

"Your father would be extremely pleased," Sigan droned on, "if we could make the gift official immediately."

"I don't think-" Arthur began icily, but Merlin interrupted him.

"I'm, erm, flattered that you think so highly of my abilities, Mr Sigan," he said quietly. "And I know your tapestry would be a gift of major importance to us." Arthur shot him an angry look, but Merlin kept his voice steady. "If you would give me a day or so, I would be pleased to think it over."

Sigan rubbed his hands, reminding Arthur of nothing so much as a stereotypical miser from a fairy tale, leering over his hoard of gold. Or perhaps it was just his imagination. He could not remember having been this furious in a long time.

"Splendid!" the collector finally said. "Shall we speak the day after tomorrow? Or tomorrow afternoon?"

"I'll need to discuss this with Arthur," Merlin said somewhat nervously, as the look in his Assistant Director's eyes was hardly encouraging. "And perhaps with Uther? And, erm, it would be unreasonable of me to assume that the Insitute would be willing to hold my job for me for six months. There's a great deal we'll have to, well, consider."

"Certainly, certainly," Sigan exclaimed happily. "We can talk by phone tomorrow. Or you are welcome to stop by here; I should have my legal transfer information available after three."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arthur wasn't quite certain exactly how he and Merlin managed to make their exit. Their courteous handshakes and murmurs of thanks, and their promises to respond to their host within the next forty-eight hours, were like a blur in his very agitated mind. When the two of them were standing on the pavement just outside of Sigan's front door, Arthur put his hand behind Merlin's arm and walked him speedily down the street.

"I don't want to say anything now," he said, his voice so cold that he could feel Merlin give a little start. "And certainly not here. Best to wait until we're inside and with closed doors between us and everybody else."

Merlin turned his head, his eyebrows raised, but Arthur would not look at him. Sighing, he fell into step with his Assistant Director, hoping against hope that Uther would be away from the house on business, that Elaine would be occupied elsewhere, and that Mordred would be someplace where he couldn't possibly interrupt their conversation with questions about New York, particle physics, or the thermoluminescent testing of works of art.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Merlin's Decision**

Arthur's jaw was set and his level gaze was icy cold. Merlin stole quick glances at him every few minutes, but he knew his Assistant Director well enough not to make an attempt at casual conversation. They walked to Uther's house in record time, and Merlin was panting a little by the time they got there.

The house was blessedly empty, and Arthur practically dragged Merlin into his room and slammed the door.

"Now," he said, his throat working a little. Both of them were breathing hard, from their rapid stroll as well as their heightened emotions, and Merlin's short, jagged fringe was damp with sweat. "You will please tell me why the hell you offered to consider Sigan's proposal. The man is clearly under the impression that you intend to accept it."

"I was being polite," Merlin began, wondering if this sounded terribly lame. "Arthur, for pity's sake. What did you expect me to say?"

"But you were serious," was the abrupt reply. "Can you honestly tell me you're _not_ considering it?"

"You heard what he said," said Merlin calmly. "If I agree to his proposal, and if you, as my employer, agree, the tapestry will be made over to the Institute immediately. If I don't, and you don't, who knows when it will happen. He even hinted that he might change his mind altogether about the gift, so-"

"-so you're willing to put yourself in Sigan's hands for six months? To relocate to London, and saddle the Insitute with _Aredian_?"

"I don't know what you mean, put myself in his hands. My _self_ is not going to be anywhere near his _hands_. But that's not the point, it's not the issue. This is a work of art of great value, extremely rare, and magnificent. Everybody at the Institute is counting on its arrival. Morgana, Lance, your father, everybody. Even the Conservation Department is excited. I don't _want_ to accept Sigan's proposal. If I can get out of it, I will. But how can I possibly go back to New York and tell them I put a stop to his donation of the tapestry, by refusing to give up half a year of my time?"

"Bloody Cornelius," Arthur muttered. "Playing games with every museum director who wants something from his bloody collection. All right, I know that's what collectors often do. But I'm not trading _you_ for a piece of wool and silk."

"Arthur, if it would mean so much to the Institute-"

"_Mer_lin, shut up," Arthur said icily. "There are plenty of tapestries. There's only one you."

"There are not plenty of tapestries. Not like this one."

"I don't care," snapped Arthur, furiously. "You're not going to work for him. Unless, of course, you want to."

He flung his jacket on the floor, his face gone crimson to the hairline.

"Arthur," Merlin said patiently. "Of course I don't want to work for him. I was just thinking-"

"You_ weren't_ thinking, Merlin," Arthur said bitterly. "That's the problem."

Merlin knew a temper tantrum when he saw one, so he let that comment go by.

"I don't want to move back to London," he said quietly. "And I don't want to work for Cornelius Sigan. I'm getting a little tired of repeating myself. And I don't think he fancies me, not really. Not the way he probably fancies _you_."

"You don't think he fancies you? Oh, and I suppose those weren't_ his_ eyes sliding all up and down your...your...you, the whole time we were looking at that wretched tapestry!"

"Oh shut it, you prat," Merlin muttered, his own temper beginning to fray at the edges. "It's _you_ he fancies, and you know it. Since you were a boy. And you're the good-looking one, anyway."

Arthur advanced on Merlin so fiercely that he actually took a step back, bumping into the wall he had forgotten was there.

"You," said Arthur between his teeth, his eyes a little wild, "are bloody fucking beautiful, even if you refuse to acknowledge it." (Merlin was about to say that this was absolute bollocks, that he was too thin, with ridiculous ears, and that Arthur was the beautiful one, but he saw the look on Arthur's face and decided to keep his mouth closed.) "So don't tell me to shut it. I know what he was looking at."

"Arthur, please," Merlin breathed, holding up both hands in the classic gesture of surrender. "Stop it. Enough. This isn't about which of us he finds more attractive. It's about the Institute, and that tapestry, and the possibility of losing it to someplace else. Your staff would be disappointed. Your...Uther would be disappointed."

"Let's forget about my father for the moment," Arthur said, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. It was obvious that he was struggling for self control. "If you had to choose between me and that tapestry, what would you do?"

"Well of course I would choose you, you sodding idiot!" shouted Merlin, his temper finally getting away from him. "But I don't have a museum to run. I'm not a bloody Director. I'm just a lowly conservator with newcomer status. It's different, when it comes to you. You have to think of the Institute, and its future, not just you and me."

"Merlin," whispered Arthur, taking Merlin's shoulders between his hands. "I _am_ thinking about the Institute. Can you imagine that place without you for six months, with all of those manuscripts that need conservation work? Can you imagine _Aredian_ working there for six months, in your place? And Gaius? I'd give it six weeks, forget about six months, before he and Aredian tried to murder each other. And what about me…what would I…"

He dropped his hands to his sides, looking so angry and despondent that Merlin had to make an effort not to put his arms around him and shush him as one might do to a child. It was clear that any attempt to mollify Arthur would have to be straightforward. He didn't think he had ever seen his Assistant Director in such a state (not having been conscious during Arthur's now famous fight with Valiant at the Metropolitan Museum) but he was certainly wonderful to look at, at this moment, with his cheeks brilliantly flushed and his eyes, beneath ruffled fair hair, the rich, deep blue of glacier meltwater.

"I can't say I'm not tempted to let Gaius murder Aredian," Merlin finally said with an attempt at levity, although he knew immediately that it was not going to work. "But think of what people will say if I turn this down. I haven't got much of an excuse to offer Sigan. Or your father. Apart from my own inclination to stay with you."

His mobile phone chose this very inopportune moment to beep shrilly, signaling the arrival of a text message.

"It's from S-Sigan," said Merlin, staring at the tiny screen with horrified amazement. "How did he get my number?"

"_I_ didn't give it to him," Arthur snapped. "What does it say?"

Merlin silently handed the mobile to Arthur. There, in the brief message, was the figure Sigan intended to offer Merlin as salary, should he agree to the six month stint in London. It was more than twice what he would earn in the same amount of time at the Pendragon Institute.

"Bastard," Arthur said, nearly flinging the mobile phone against the wall before remembering at the last moment that it wasn't his. "He must be more filthy rich than I thought."

"You know as well as I do that this is just chump change for someone like Sigan," Merlin replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Probably about as much money as he spends on taxis, or less than the fuel for one of his stupid planes."

"I'm the Assistant Director, in fact I'm more or less the Acting Director, of the Institute," Arthur snarled. "And I say you're not going to relocate to London. I'll think of a reason. But you're not going to go through with his ridiculous plan."

"Right," said Merlin, just a little submissively. "I'm all in agreement with that. But please find a reason, quickly. My brain's gone to mush."

"My reason and a reason everybody else will accept are two different things," Arthur muttered. "But I'll think of some way. I can't believe that salary! He really wants you. Not that I'm surprised."

"He doesn't want _me_, he just wants, you know, me, for conserva-"

"Yes, he does," said Arthur, breathing hard. "I wanted to put his teeth down his throat."

"No, he doesn't."

"Well, _I _want you, _now_," Arthur said tersely, taking Merlin by the shoulders again. His warm breath fanned the side of Merlin's face, his fingers tightened. "Please," he added, almost as an afterthought, halfway through wrestling impatiently with the buttons on the beautiful blue-green shirt. Merlin let him remove the shirt, sighing a little when the last two buttons popped off, and then unfastened Arthur's, leaving all of the buttons still affixed to it. Then he rested his brow against Arthur's, trembling a little, and he could feel that Arthur also was shaking, whether with passion or the remnants of his anger he could not say. His kiss, when it came, was fierce, verging on desperate, and Merlin stood still, allowed Arthur to manhandle him onto the bed, let him take control in the vague hope that it would calm him.

In bed Arthur was voracious, and clearly in a dominant frame of, well, mind. Although his kisses became surprisingly gentle, his hands were everywhere, and he was extremely vigorous otherwise. Merlin could do little more than grasp Arthur's shoulders (and how beautiful and perfect they felt beneath his clutching fingers) and hang on for dear life.

"Sorry," Arthur murmured, afterwards, his voice contrite. "I'm sorry. I know that was too rough."

"No, it's okay," Merlin whispered. His breathing had gone all to hell; he tried to regulate the rise and fall of his chest. "You didn't hurt me." For the most part it had been oddly exhilarating and exciting, and only the first few moments had been, as Arthur put it, rough.

"I imagine this is the sort of activity Sigan has at the back of his nasty little mind," Arthur mumbled.

"No...ugh! Arthur! For the tenth time, he does not lust after me."

"I know better," was the snappish reply. "He lusts after both of us, but thinks one is better than nothing." Arthur was trying his hardest to obliterate the mental image of Merlin asleep in Sigan's guest suite, pale and fragile-looking _in what was doubtless _an oversized bed...and Cornelius Sigan tiptoing in _with what were doubtless _lewd and lascivious intentions.

"I...that's disgusting," Merlin said feebly. "What an idea. You should see the furious look on your face. And I thought you were feeling better."

"How do you expect me to feel?" Arthur muttered with a wry smile. "When you're threatening to abandon me."

"Don't be daft," said Merlin, once again struggling to keep his own temper. "I'm not going to _abandon_ you. I love you, Arthur."

He had said this only twice before, and both times were long enough ago that the words sounded new and surprising in his own ear. Almost instantly he felt Arthur relax, and then those arms, with their sleek, well-defined muscles, crushed him in a bear hug that took his breath away.

"Merlin, _Merlin_," he mumbled into Merlin's hair. "I ought to...you should be...you blithering…impossible..._idiot_! You know I love you. I do."

As this was only the second time Arthur had actually said the L word, Merlin was shocked into stillness.*

"And if you ever leave me," the Institute's Assistant Director went on, tense once again and beginning to sound more like himself, "I'll go after you and drag you back."

"For God's sake," Merlin snorted, wondering if he had heard correctly. "Arthur. That is the most arrogant, aggressive way of saying you lo-"

"You're _mine_," Arthur interrupted in that imperiously possessive voice Merlin knew so well.

"I know, Arthur," he finally whispered gently, trying not to wince as he shifted his position. "_I am_. I am."

He reached up and ran his fingers through Arthur's golden hair, drew little circles on his forehead with his fingertips, trying to ease away the lines of anxiety he saw there. Moments later Arthur sighed, and Merlin felt the tightness in his muscles loosen as he lowered his head to Merlin's shoulder.

When Arthur spoke again, it was in a low growl.

"I'm yours, as well," he said quietly. "If you want me. You idiot."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Can we go look at those photo albums now?" Merlin asked softly from Arthur's chest.

"Absolutely not," was the muffled but adamant reply. "I can only deal with so much torture in one day."

"But I _want_ to see them," Merlin said insistently. "You saw all of mine. It's only fair."

Arthur gave a faint, breathy laugh that ruffled Merlin's hair. "Tomorrow morning, then. I don't suppose you'd let me do a little judicious editing?"

"No," said Merlin firmly. "I'm going to look at all of them." Then, hesitantly: "You don't really think Uther organized that Sigan business, do you? I doubt it, myself. I mean...it's not very..."

"Not very ethical?" said Arthur brusquely, but his hands stroked Merlin's hair, and then his cheek and jaw, in a manner that was anything but brusque. They continued to move downward, light and explorative. "In answer to your question, I don't know. But I intend to ask him."

"And if he, well, if he was involved? Rather an awkward way to try and separate you from...from..."

"I'll tell him to bugger off," Arthur replied, scowling. "If that turns out to be the case."

"No, you can't tell him that, not your father _in his own house_!"

"Oh no?" Arthur said, shifting onto his side. "Watch me."

"Could you not wait until…until after I've told Sigan I won't be working for him?"

"Yes, of course."

"The entire Institute is going to burn me in effigy," Merlin said morosely. "They'll hate me. They all want that tapestry!"

"No, they'll understand," Arthur responded, and there was a sudden note of confidence in his voice. "I have a plan."

Neither had thought to switch on Mordred's Father Detector, but the vehement slam of the front door was perfectly audible, and they could hear a babble of raised voices in the front hall, below.

"Either Father's gotten a parking ticket," Arthur said with a crooked smile, "or Mordred's out of sorts about the state of the universe."

He delivered this pronouncement in such a voice of doom that Merlin put his head against Arthur's arm and collapsed with laughter.

"That's very good, Merlin," Arthur said with approval. "Much better, mood-wise."

Merlin raised his face. "What? I'm not the one who was glowering and shouting and frothing at the mouth only an hour ago."

"I wasn't frothing," retorted Arthur, trying to unwind himself from the bedclothes. "That is - careful! Your knees, Merlin! No wonder I'm black and blue all over. And I thought your elbows were bad."

"If we don't get up, and get dressed," Merlin whispered, "we're going to miss dinner. Or your father's going to march in here and have heart failure."

Arthur sat up, pulling Merlin up with him, and felt a little shiver run through his conservator's slim frame.

"I'm ravenous," he murmured, nibbling absently on Merlin's collarbone. "We'll get dressed." Watching a smile beginning to form on Merlin's full-lipped mouth, he grinned as he slid out of bed. "Don't worry," he said, sounding cheerful for the first time since their arrival at Sigan's home. "I told you. I have a plan."

* * *

*** The only other time Arthur used the L word was in Chapter 31 of "Inside the Pendragon Institute."**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: In Which Cornelius Sigan Is Not What He Seems**

Before Merlin joined the staff of the Pendragon Institute, Arthur had not given much thought to what was said about his love life in museum and academic circles, and even in the press. None of his relationships had been particularly meaningful, and he was honest with his partners about his lack of interest in commitment. And then his father had hired this insubordinate, willful, clumsy yet uniquely gifted _idiot_ to work in the Conservation Department, and everything had changed.

He had – almost against his will – found Merlin appealing from the day he first met him. Although he had made it a rule not to become involved with anyone at the Institute, he had found his eyes following this thin, pale, dark-haired young conservator whenever they were in the same room.

He had fought against this odd sensation for some time, thinking it entirely inappropriate. The young man worked for him. He did _not_ sleep with his co-workers. He had no idea whether Merlin Emrys shared his feelings in any way.

By the time he had gotten his hands on his junior conservator, he was completely fired up with confusion and desire. But their first intimate encounter (the memory of which _still _made him dizzy) had made it plain to him that he wanted to get his hands on Merlin (indeed, all over Merlin) more than once. In fact, as often as possible. By the time everything went public, he realized, quite simply, that he could not do without him.

For the first time in his life, he began to take notice whenever his photo appeared in the society columns, or if his name was mentioned in a newspaper article. He didn't much care what they said about _him_, as he was accustomed to the limelight, but he was determined that nobody should treat Merlin as though he were a social-climbing boy toy, a Pendragon flavor of the month. This new protectiveness and possessiveness amazed him – he had never felt this way about any of his previous partners – but with Merlin his neediness went far beyond mere sexual attraction. Not that he would admit this aloud, but just watching that infuriating_ lunatic_ at work on a manuscript in the Conservation studio, or scowling over a pile of overdue condition reports, made him feel ridiculously happy.

And there was no way that an obscenely rich collector like Cornelius Sigan was going to abscond with Merlin in exchange for a _tapestry_.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I've just had a word with Gaius," Arthur said calmly.

"Oh? And, erm, what did he say?" was the uncertain reply. Merlin was wearing the Vivienne Westwood jacket again, but this time over a grey tee shirt. He had rung up Cornelius Sigan immediately after breakfast, to ask if they could meet that afternoon, and had received an affirmative response.

"I gave him an edited version of Sigan's proposal. He nearly went through the ceiling."

"_Really?_" said Merlin, pleased and surprised.

"Yes, really. He said 'What cheek!' And added that he wouldn't have blamed me if I'd knocked Cornelius arse over elbow. And that if _you_ were insane enough to accept Corny's offer, he, meaning Gaius, would set a giant old-fashioned mouse trap for Aredian."

Merlin tried not to laugh into his coffee at the thought of Aredian squashed flat by a man-sized mouse trap.

He and Arthur were sitting in a neighborhood café, polishing off the remains of sandwiches and fruit salad. They had had a pleasant breakfast earlier with Elaine and Mordred, Uther being blessedly absent. Their dinner the previous night had been extremely quiet, with Arthur glaring at his plate, Merlin doing his best to hide behind the table's floral centerpiece, and Uther looking from his son to his son's employee with a perplexed expression and tightened lips. If it hadn't been for Mordred's lengthy explanation of a theory he had just read in the _Journal of Applied Physics_, and various befuddled responses to this by everybody else, there would have been no conversation at all.

"I spoke with Morgana as well," Arthur continued, grinning. "She said she thinks Sigan will go for what I'm going to suggest. But if he doesn't, she says to hell with him. She said it would take an army to drag you away from the Institute."

"You're joking," drawled Merlin, raising one eyebrow in a vain attempt to look like Gaius. "And how is she planning to counter this theoretical army, if one happens to march on New York?"

"I've no idea," Arthur said, still grinning. "But there isn't much I'd put past Morgana. Her evil knows no bounds. She claims that she has her own troops of supporters, though what she's talking about I haven't a clue. Perhaps it's a supernatural army, like that ghostly one in the third Lord of the Rings film."

"I knew it," Merlin said, smirking. "Morgana has summoned an army of the dead."

"At least you've got your sense of humor back," Arthur replied. "Let's go."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I'm still waiting to see those photograph albums," Merlin said severely as they waited for a traffic light to change.

Arthur made no reply, but as they walked briskly toward the Sigan home, Merlin realized that his Assistant Director was talking to himself. "Eight, nine, ten. That's at least ten or eleven museum exhibitions Sigan's lent objects to," he was muttering under his breath. "At least five or six in the UK. One in Germany, in Frankfurt. One in Tokyo. He's also lent things to the Metropolitan in New York. But," he added, returning to his normal speaking voice, "he's never had an exhibit devoted to him and his collection specifically. No big banners or signs hanging outside of any museum, with his name on them."

"Oh," Merlin responded, wondering why this was important. "So?"

"_Mer_lin," Arthur announced. "You're an idiot."

"That's what you always say," said Merlin with little change of expression. "What else is new?"

"I'm counting on Cornelius' ego to help us," was the cool reply. "And if that doesn't work, I'll just clout him over the head and leave it at that."

"Ah," said Merlin, philosophically. "Shall I bring little baskets of food to you in jail?"

"Just make certain you hide a miniature hacksaw in one of the cakes," Arthur murmured. His fingers lightly brushed Merlin's shoulder, a discreet public caress. "I don't fancy spending the next year fending off the attentions of blokes who look like a cross between Worf the Klingon and Pee-wee Herman on steroids."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cornelius Sigan opened the front door so rapidly that Merlin had the sneaking suspicion that he had been waiting by the window in the front hall.

"Please do come in," he said in his faintly raspy voice, ushering them forward with a melodramatic gesture. "I know it's a bit early in the day for drinks, but may I offer you a lager? Or something soft, if you'd prefer."

His guests accepted ice water and followed him into the parlour, where they chatted about the weather and the economy and the refusal of the Pendragon Institute to raise admission fees.

"I think that's quite noble of you," Sigan said, smiling. "Keeping art accessible to the masses. It's not as if museums take in a great deal of money! Now, we can discuss business in the gallery and take another look at that tapestry. Shall we?"

He led the way along what was becoming a familiar path, through the dark hallways, into the dark library, and then into the gallery space behind it.

As their host puttered about the room, adjusting the overhead lighting, Merlin took a deep breath.

"Mr Sigan," he began seriously, controlling his voice with an effort. "I am extremely grateful to you for your offer, and flattered by your opinion of my work. But, respectfully, I must decline."

Sigan slowly raised his eyes to Merlin's, a questioning look on his face but no real sense of surprise or disappointment.

"I respect your decision, of course," he said in a tone only mildly laden with rebuke. "But if I may inquire as to what made you decide…? Is there a project you need to finish at the Institute, perhaps?"

"Erm, I…" said Merlin, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. "I haven't been with the Institute long. I made a commitment to, erm, to them, and I don't think it would be fair for me to leave so suddenly, and for such an extended period of time. And I would have no right to expect them to take me back after six months in London."

"You did see the salary I am prepared to offer?" Sigan said very quietly, so that only Merlin could hear.

"Yes," Merlin replied, almost as quietly, looking down at the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Cornelius," said Arthur from the other side of the room, and Sigan's head snapped up and turned towards him, like that of a hunting dog at the scent of a grouse or pheasant.

"If I might have a word?" Arthur said politely, and Sigan obligingly crossed the floor. "Privately," Arthur added, and his host, eyebrows raised, followed him out of the gallery space and back into the library.

"I'm sorry we had to disappoint you, Cornelius," Arthur continued, once they were seated in the library and Sigan had switched on some lights. "To be honest with you, Merlin did consider coming here for the sixth month period. He wanted to be certain of your gift to the Institute, you see."

"I think I'm beginning to see," Sigan replied dryly, shuffling several of the piles of paper that littered the surface of his desk. "And?"

"I don't think we could do without him in New York," Arthur said flatly. "Even for half that time. He's become indispensable."

"Ahem," mumbled Sigan, looking at Arthur from beneath lowered eyebrows. "Well, it's a shame. I've been hoping to have all of my medieval European manuscript paintings – and I have quite a few examples, in addition to my Persian and Moghul miniatures – worked on, in the event that a museum asks to borrow them. I'd love to see them exhibited somewhere, they're such excellent pieces. The Yale University Art Museum, in the States, has sent out some feelers, but…"

It was the opening Arthur had been waiting for.

"Cornelius," he said slowly, displaying his most charming smile with an effort. "From what I understand, you've always hoped a museum would hold an exhibition of your best objects, an exhibition devoted solely to _your_ collection. An exhibit with a nice title, like 'Powerful Vision: The Enid and Cornelius Collection of Art.' At a major museum, perhaps in the States. Forgive my bluntness, but-"

"It's the Cornelius Sigan Collection," his host interrupted. "Enid's a darling girl, but she has nothing whatsoever to do with my collecting activities."

"Oh…well, whatever. I think we could offer you something along those lines. At the Institute. For your medieval and Renaissance pieces, that is. A special exhibition devoted to your collection and nobody else's."

Sigan's eyes opened wide, and he gave a long "Ahhhhh! A consolation prize, is that it? You're offering me an exhibition in place of a temporary conservator."

"Something like that," admitted Arthur, having decided that straight talk was the only way to deal with this slippery fellow.

"And?" Sigan went on, giving Arthur a sharp look.

"And," said Arthur, throwing down his ace, "if your medieval and Renaissance manuscripts are included in the objects you lend for the exhibit, we will have them treated by our own Conservation Department. By Merlin, if you wish. At no expense to you. They will be in the best condition they could possibly be, by the time they're returned to you."

Sigan met Arthur's serious look and cocked his head to one side, as though considering this.

"We can do the same for any three-dimensional objects you lend to the show," Arthur concluded. "Sculptures, metal objects, and so on. We do have a fine objects conservator. And Merlin is qualified to work on objects, as well as paper."

"That's a generous offer," Sigan murmured, looking down at his hands and his piles of paper. "I hope your young man doesn't object to the extra work you're willing to pile on him."

"He won't object," Arthur said, ignoring Sigan's use of '_your young man_.' "I'm certain he won't object. And I need him to stay with the Institute."

His host smiled. "Well, Arthur, that's a very attractive proposal. And... I accept it. An exhibition of my art, at Camelot. You _do_ know that that's what people call the Institute, don't you?"

"Yes," Arthur replied, fighting not to show his immense relief. He stood up and walked over to one of the bookshelves, forcing himself to remain calm. "That's what some people call it in the States, as well. I like to think of it as an affectionate nickname."

"As for Mr Emrys, and your decision not to sacrifice him to the whim of some eccentric entrepreneur," Sigan went on, completely startling his guest, "I find it admirable. I must confess that I am envious of such devotion. You pass the test."

"I...what? Cornelius...what did you say? What test?"

"Now, Arthur. Do sit down. You're angry with me, I daresay. And I really did hope to borrow your conservator. I did offer immediate transfer of my tapestry, as compensation. But I wanted to see how the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute would react to such a suggestion."

"Did my father know about this?" said Arthur, blanching and sitting down rather hard on a sixteenth-century carved wooden chair.

Sigan looked shocked. "Oh, no, no, no!" he exclaimed, waving his fingers in the air as though he were conducting an invisible orchestra. "When I asked him if he would mind if I 'borrowed' Mr Emrys for a brief period of time, he said he had no objection, if you didn't. However, none of this was Uther's idea. And I never told him that I might actually make it a condition of gift. That was simply part of my little 'test' of your character."

It was difficult for Arthur not to leap up, seize the collector by the throat, and ask him what the hell right he had to question his character, and what the _hell_ right did he have to test him. But he remained silent, with his hands on the elaborately-carved arms of the chair, and tried to keep his expression as cordial as possible.

"You'll forgive me, I hope," Sigan went on, smiling cheerfully. "I'm rather particular about whom I give my possessions to. If you had been the sort of fellow who happily trades his…his _inamorato_ for a piece of tapestry and the glory of his museum, I might have given you my tapestry, but the Institute would have gotten nothing else from me, in the future. Eccentric and old-fashioned of me, I know. I'm accustomed to being called eccentric. But I really do care about what happens to these beautiful things. They've survived the centuries, and they'll survive us, but I want them to go to a good home, so to speak."

Arthur swallowed and was at a loss as to how to reply. It was also the first time anybody had openly referred to Merlin as his…what had Sigan said? His inamorato. Certainly nobody had ever called Merlin his "lover", "boyfriend," or even "partner," to his face.

"I've always been rather impressed by you," Sigan was saying in a regretful voice. "I knew you were intelligent, and oh my! what you looked like at sixteen! You're an incredibly handsome man now, of course. But I always did wonder if your character matched your face."

This was getting to be a bit much, and Arthur felt squeamish again. "Are you telling me," he managed to get out, "that after hearing our rejection of your proposal, you were planning, definitely, to give us the tapestry anyway? Even if I'd never offered you an exhibition at the Institute?"

"Well, yes," sighed Sigan, lowering his eyelids and smiling demurely. "But now that you've offered it, don't expect me to turn it down."

"Oh!" groaned Arthur, ordering himself to count to ten.

"Now!" said Sigan briskly, drawing one of the piles of papers towards himself, and evidently putting all thoughts of Arthur's good looks and admirable character aside. "Here is a copy of my deed of gift, for the Institute's legal counsel. And an extra copy for yourself. I'm prepared to arrange for air transport to New York within the next month. I've already spoken with the art packers, who will also handle customs and so on. Shall we rejoin Merlin – you don't mind if I call him Merlin – in the gallery?"

Still unable to think of an appropriate response, Arthur got to his feet and followed his host into the gallery space, where Merlin was once again poring over the tapestry with a magnifying lens and a measuring tape.

"Goodness, yes," muttered Cornelius Sigan, too softly for Merlin to hear. He turned his head, surveying first one and then the other of his guests. "You _are_ nicely matched, if I do say so myself. He's a lovely creature, isn't he? A bit like a yearling colt, all sleek, spindly limbs and keen eyes. Dear me, Arthur, there's no need to become so agitated! My admiration is strictly platonic."

Arthur realized that his hands had clenched into fists and that his brows had drawn together. He cleared his throat, flushing a little, and tried not to look shamefaced.

"Thank you, Cornelius, for your, uh, generosity. Father will be very pleased, and this will be an extraordinary addition to our collection. Merlin! The Insitute is going to hold an exhibition of Cornelius' medieval and Renaissance objects."

"It is?" Merlin asked, surprised. "Erm, when?"

"I should think in about a year to eighteen months. That will give us enough time to write a catalogue and arrange for all of the technicalities. Now, shall we review the shipping issues, for the tapestry? We can map out the exhibition in detail, later."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I don't understand," Merlin complained as he and Arthur walked slowly homeward. "He was _testing_ you?"

"I don't quite understand it myself," Arthur grumbled, relieved to be out of Sigan's house and away from the collector's ironic gaze. "Ugh. I feel clammy. Shall we stop at that pub for a drink?"

"At least we needn't turn to Morgana and her phantom troops," Merlin joked, trying to ease Arthur out of his uncomfortable frame of mind. "And you can rest assured that Sigan never really had designs on my virtue."

"Your _virtue_, is it?" Arthur murmured, smirking just a little. "Well, that's a nice name for it. That's what I'll call it from now on. Of course he did, but we won't discuss it. _We_ must put your _virtue_ to good use as soon as possible. After yesterday, I'm afraid _my_ virtue is still sore. And Father's bound to be home this evening. So we'll need to give our virtues a rest until we have more privacy."

"I can't believe you're talking such filth," Merlin said, pretending to be insulted. "And you're actually suggesting I have a drink. Could you explain all of this to me again? From the beginning? I want to know what's going on before we have to face Uther at dinner. Otherwise I won't know where to look, and we'll have to ask Mordred for another recitation of the Big Bang Theory."


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: What Uther Had to Say**

"I really do feel ill," Arthur said as they resumed their homeward trudge. A pint at the neighborhood pub had done little to make him feel better. "Cornelius Sigan is absolutely sickening. The way he looks at me! The way he looks at you!"

"At least the tapestry's ours, and we're through with him, for now," Merlin said, wrinkling his nose. He looked up from his mobile phone, which he had just checked for messages. "Aren't we?"

"Not quite," was Arthur's morose reply. "He'll be at that Antiquities Society reception, tomorrow night. I can't help but feel that the man still has something up his sleeve. Thank God we're leaving by the end of the week! When I saw the way he was watching you in the gallery, I was itching to get my hands around his neck."

Merlin said nothing, but he smiled, and Arthur could see that his eyes were bright and he was practically glowing.

"Now!" muttered the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute, touching his conservator lightly on the elbow. "I need to have a little conference with Father. Preferably _after _dinner."

Merlin gave him a sympathetic look. They continued to walk, with no further comment on the subject of Cornelius Sigan, but Merlin kept to himself the content of the text message that had appeared on his mobile phone only minutes before:

_Should you ever choose to leave the Institute, for whatever reason, you will be welcome to come to work for me. C.S._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

If Mordred was still distressed over the state of the universe, he wasn't about to pursue the subject over dinner. The closest he came to the question of whether or not the universe had a shelf life was the conversation he initiated on the subject of black holes, which started halfway through the main course. It was actually more like a monologue than a conversation, as nobody else at the table was able to make a coherent response to anything he was attempting to explain.

"MIT isn't a bad idea after all," Arthur said when the arrival of glazed orange cake put an end to Mordred's musings.

"I told you," Mordred announced through a mouthful of cake. "I want to go back to New York with you."

"Don't speak with your mouth full, darling," said Elaine.

"Mordred, MIT's in Massachusetts, remember?" Merlin began, gently, but Uther had assumed his most self-righteous expression and interrupted without even glancing in Merlin's direction.

"Mordred, that's quite impossible," he said in the quiet but stern voice that would have pushed every one of Morgana's danger buttons, had she been present. "You're too young to go off to America by yourself, and too young to attend MIT."

His youngest child stared at him coldly, his pale blue eyes wide, but made no reply. It was his older son who spoke.

"Father, if you're not too busy, I'd like to have a word, after coffee," Arthur said calmly. "Perhaps in your study?"

"As it happens, I was going to ring Cornelius about his insurance appraisal," Uther began in a rather ponderous tone, but his wife put her hand on his arm.

"Uther," she said, quietly but firmly, her china-blue eyes fixed on his face. "Your son needs to speak to you. Cornelius can wait."

Arthur's mouth came very close to falling open, and Merlin, swallowing hard, caught his dessert fork in the sleeve of his jacket and sent it flying across the table.

"Very well, then," Uther said, looking almost as astonished as Arthur. "After coffee."

They adjourned to the parlour, where they all – except for Mordred – helped themselves to very strong coffee in an effort to recharge their batteries (as Gaius always put it, before Institute staff meetings). Then Mordred went upstairs to play computer games and Merlin retreated to one end of the long, elegantly-furnished room, where Elaine had piled the old photograph albums on one of the side tables.

"Bloody hell," muttered Arthur at the sight of the photo albums, but their significance had dwindled in the face of a man-to-man talk with the senior Pendragon.

"Wish me luck," he added under his breath. His back was to the room but he could hear his father's purposeful tread moving in the direction of the study. Ignoring the likelihood that Uther was looking in their direction, Arthur lifted his hand, fingers slightly curled, and ran the knuckles lightly down the side of Merlin's face. Merlin blushed, but did not pull away, and moments later they heard the gentle click of a turning doorknob as Uther disappeared behind his study door.

They eyed one another, Arthur a little grim faced, and Merlin still flushed, but this time with a mixture of pride in him and affection.

"It'll be fine," he whispered as Arthur turned to go. "Everything's going to be alright."

"Idiot!" Arthur mumbled, rolling his eyes but smiling. "Mind you don't give yourself a hernia laughing at those photos."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arther knew that his father had been aware of many of his previous liaisons; it would have been difficult to keep them from him, as most had been well documented in the press. He also knew Uther was not ignorant of the fact that his sex life had involved men as well as women. This had not appeared to irk the senior Pendragon to excess, as Arthur showed no signs of wanting to establish a lasting relationship with any of his lovers, of either gender. Apparently Uther had regarded his son's past amours as casual dalliances (which they were), leaving open the possibility of a socially advantageous marriage (and high-born grandchildren) in the future. Yet now Arthur had moved his junior conservator into his flat, and displayed all the signs of being emotionally attached to him. Had Merlin simply been the object of a casual fling, Uther might have had no particularly intense objection to him. His displeasure, rather, was due to the evidence of Arthur's genuine and growing affection for this strangely appealing young man, and indications that he might even make the tie permanent. If Merlin Emrys became a permanent fixture, he was standing in the way of Arthur's reproductive prospects and the future of the Pendragon dynasty.

Because of these things, it was with some trepidation that Arthur knocked on the door of Uther's study, and waited patiently until it was opened.

Uther looked uncharacteristically flustered; his hair was just slightly awry, as if he had been running his fingers through it. He gestured his son into the room, and then closed the door very softly. Once behind his desk, he seemed to regain a little of his sternly autocratic air, but Arthur could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he held his head rigidly upright.

"Very well, Arthur," he said in the deceptively mild voice that always indicated an intractable mood. "What is it you had to say to me?"

There, on Uther's desk, was a large, high-resolution print of Cornelius Sigan's tapestry, with that mysterious figure – lordling or manservant? – that so closely resembled Merlin. The eyes slightly downcast beneath the cap of dark hair, the long neck and boyish shoulders, the little half-smile…it was amazing, how much it looked like his junior conservator. In whom Cornelius Sigan appeared to have harbored an interest that extended beyond an appreciation of his professional brilliance.

It was this more than anything else that made Arthur decide to get down to the matter that had been plaguing him, rather than easing gradually into the subject.

"From what I understand, Father," he said, with no preamble, "you were aware that Cornelius was hoping to get Merlin to work as his conservator. Cornelius was also hoping that Aredian would take Merlin's place with us, at the Institute, for that six-month period. I'm happy to have the tapestry, but he's a devious bastard, and unscrupulous into the bargain."

"Arthur," the senior Pendragon murmured, looking his son in the face. "It's true I knew he was interested in courting Merlin for his art collection. I didn't interfere, either on his behalf or yours. It was my opinion that this was something you could handle on your own."

"It was," Arthur replied, his voice still even. "But that isn't the point, really. The point is that you disapprove of my…relationship with Merlin and are reluctant to acknowledge it."

"Have I ever been discourteous to Merlin?" his father asked with a touch of indignation.

"Not precisely," Arthur answered.

"When you were younger," Uther said heavily, not meeting Arthur's eyes, "I used to think that you would settle down and marry…a daughter of one of our friends, perhaps. And now…" He did not finish the sentence, simply raising his hands and letting them fall with a slap onto the top of his desk. "You'll say that's snobbish of me. Of course I know I have no right to try to control whom you…er." He said this with such reluctance that his son almost smiled. "I've always hoped, as well, that Morgana would find a suitable spouse."

"Father," said Arthur slowly. "Forgive me, but what the hell is a suitable spouse? Somebody whose ancestors go back to the Conqueror? Somebody whose family made a fortune in money markets?"

"There was my old friend Lot's son, a promising young Guardsman. He was so very taken with her," Uther went on as if he hadn't heard. "Although it seems," he added, almost sadly, "that she has plans of her own in that department."

Arthur stifled a guffaw at the thought of anybody trying to force Morgana to marry the promising young Guardsman. The poor fellow would be running for his life in the space of fifteen minutes.

There was a loud, unexpected clap of thunder outside, reminding Arthur of Merlin's joke about Morgana's "army of the dead," and he repressed the sudden urge to laugh.

"I have nothing against Merlin," Uther continued in a heavy voice. "Nothing against the boy, except for the fact that he _is_ a boy. Now Arthur, you know I'm no homophobe or bigot, so don't look at me like that. There's the future to think of. I've always hoped to have grandchildren. Yes, there's Mordred, but he's still a child, bright as he is, and we both know he's…well, not exactly your ordinary youngster. What he will be like when he's an adult nobody can guess, and…ah, there's little point in talking about that now."

"It's a rather selfish reason, isn't it, to want _me_ to marry so that _you_ can have _grandchildren_, preferably grandchildren who are well-connected on both sides of the family," Arthur mumbled. Then, in a sudden onslaught of words, "And I know you're not _exactly_ a homophobe or bigot, not one hundred percent anyway, but you probably think Merlin seduced me. Because of my position, and because I'm a Pendragon. Well, that wasn't the case. Merlin doesn't give a rat's ar…doesn't care one iota about my professional and social position, or the family's wealth. As for the seducing bit, _I_ was the one who initiated our…our, uh, _thing_ or whatever, and he had never, uh, _been_ with a man before me."

Uther winced.

"This is very peculiar," Arthur went on, uncomfortably. "The fact that we're even discussing the details of this sort of, uh…"

"…thing," Uther finished for him, and the two looked at each other gloomily.

"So when Sigan…" Arthur said in a low voice, "when he made his proposal, I thought you might have had a hand in it. I was nonplussed, to say the least. But I'm glad it wasn't your idea. Although I realize you may have been very much in favor of it."

"I won't lie to you, Arthur," Uther said stiffly. "I wasn't averse to the idea of young Mr Emrys going to work elsewhere. He's a promising conservator, and Gaius thinks the world of him, but I thought, perhaps, with him out of the picture…"

"You thought wrong," Arthur interrupted brusquely.

"Yes," his father replied, lowering his eyes. "I can see that now." His still-handsome face suddenly flushed a dark red. "You're fond of him. I don't suppose you can explain what he is to you…not that it's any, ahem, any of my business."

Arthur looked at him wordlessly. How could he possibly explain Merlin to Uther in a way that would make him understand? The Merlin who read him so well and so clearly, better than anyone else ever had. Who saw past the surface arrogance and refused to be intimidated by him. Whose quirky sense of humor and inscrutable silences were so uniquely _Merlin._ Who gave himself up to Arthur, heart, body, and soul, in their lovemaking. Yes, of course, he could be infuriating, contradictory, clumsy, secretive - but never before had Arthur known someone who could pick up on his moods so intuitively and respond to them with such an endearing blend of awkwardness and sensitivity. Who, if Arthur was in a particularly unpleasant state of mind, could sense his frustration or his hidden melancholy. On such occasions, he might deliberately launch into a flood of boyish chatter to distract him, ignoring the acid retorts Arthur flung in his direction. Or, if they happened to be in bed and he was awakened by Arthur's restless, agitated movements, he might silently offer his body as a comfort and a refuge.

"I'm sorry if you don't like it, Father," he said tiredly. "I can't ask you to approve, but I do expect you to accept it."

"I don't see that I have much of a choice," Uther said, sounding almost as tired. "As I said, I don't _dislike_ the young man."

Arthur stood up. "That will have to do for now, then," he said with a wry smile. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you. You can make that call to Cornelius now."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As Arthur left the study and stepped into the parlour with a sigh of tension released, he heard another loud clap of thunder. Glancing at the window, he saw that it had suddenly gone dark, and what looked like a solid grey curtain of rain veiled the view of the street. His stepmother was also looking outside, and as Arthur approached she turned towards him with an apologetic expression.

"Oh dear, Arthur," she said, raising her shoulders. "Look, it's like a waterfall. Mordred wanted some cocoa, and we had no more milk, so Merlin offered to run out and get some. Then, five minutes after he left, this-" and she gestured at the cascade of water. "And he didn't take an umbrella."

Arthur blew out his breath in an explosive _pffff_, seized an umbrella from the porcelain umbrella stand in the front hall, and opened the door. As he turned to leave, he caught Elaine's encouraging smile.

Outside, the pavement was deserted, and gusts of wind blew the rain sideways. Two streets away, he came across Merlin. He was carrying a small sack of groceries, and had taken shelter at the corner of a building, beneath the overhang of a broad window ledge. This was doing little to protect him, and for a moment Arthur stood stock still, staring at Merlin's pale, rain-washed cheeks, water dripping from his short fringe, and his eyelashes, and the tip of his nose, pillowy lips shimmering wet, his eyes gone a dreamy, slatelike blue-grey, like the stormy sky. Then he coughed, a little self-consciously, and Merlin raised his head and saw him.

Arthur didn't know if it was the hard, pelting rain, or the darkness, or the earthy smell of rainwashed brick and stone combined with the faint, citrusy scent of Merlin's shower gel, that made the moment so oddly charged with eroticism. For several seconds they stood looking at one another, rain spattering everywhere, and then Arthur snorted with exasperation and pulled his conservator beneath the umbrella. Merlin came to him, silent and pliant, and Arthur leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Merlin's lips were yielding but very cold, and Arthur readjusted the umbrella, then turned them around in the direction of home.

"Honestly, _Mer_lin," he said gruffly, pretending not to notice the young man's quizzical smile. "You'll catch your death; come on, then…you're _dripping_ all over me."

Merlin shrugged his shoulders affably and fell into step beside his Assistant Director, one hand clutching the plastic grocery sack, the other resting on the umbrella shaft, just above Arthur's own.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: In Which Arthur Very Nearly Loses His Cool**

"I liked your baby pictures," Merlin said conversationally.

Arthur scowled.

"And your childhood pictures. And the ones of you and your mates playing football. The one of you and Morgana competing for the fencing trophy. And the photo of baby Mordred in a Pokemon costume. And the Christmas pageant pics, with you and Morgana in angel outfits-"

"I told you about that one," mumbled Arthur, still scowling. "A devil outfit would have been more appropriate for her. Did you go through the whole bloody lot?

"Yes," said Merlin cheerfully. "And I'm going to look at them again. With you."

"_Mer_lin," said Arthur, warningly, but Merlin simply grinned at him.

The photograph albums were piled on one end of the the sofa, but Merlin (after his usual banana and porridge breakfast) was going through emails from the Institute. He had borrwed Elaine's pink laptop ("Pink! I didn't know those came in custom colors!" said Arthur. "What would yours be? Royal purple, or gold?" retorted Merlin) and was scrolling through a lengthy message from Gaius.

"Gaius says he and Gwen have made space for the tapestry in the Textile Conservation studio," he said, eyes (a deep blue this morning) skimming the screen. "They need to know the delivery date, and so on. Lance is pushing for the thing to be displayed in the same gallery as the armor, although Morgana wants it someplace else. Apparently everybody's taking bets on what the subject of the tapestry is. Lance thinks it's figures from the Trojan War, or something classical like that. Morgana and Gwen think it might be Arthurian legend. Oh, and Gaius says Will wants to know if we're bringing a hot chick back from London to help him out in Objects Conservation."

"Tell him he's lucky not to be stuck with Aredian breathing down his neck," Arthur replied.

Aredian, it seemed, was currently in Rome. "And he can stay there, as far as I'm concerned," Arthur muttered emphatically.

Will's email consisted of a cartoon drawing of Aredian and Sigan voodoo dolls, stuck full of pins, and an attachment: a photograph of himself, Gwen, Lance, Morgana, Leon, and even Gaius and old Geoffrey, hoisting what looked like pints of ale. The caption beneath read: _Last Week's Staff Meeting_.

"Do you think he Photoshopped this?" Merlin asked.

An email from Morgana had Merlin chuckling helplessly, whilst Arthur read it over his shoulder.

_Dear Merlin, I trust that you're looking after my blockhead of a stepbrother. Everybody is excited about the tapestry coming to the Institute. I hope you didn't have to spend much time with Sigan. The man gives me the creeps. He and that chatty wife of his are such a bizarre pair. Gwen's in the midst of wedding plans, and she's asked me to be her maid of honor. Lance is going to ask Arthur to stand up with him. Don't tell him yet, as this will give him more of a swollen head than he already has. Oh, and Uther just sent me an email saying that Aredian will not be coming here to do any work with us in the foreseeable future. I've never known him to change his mind so suddenly about things like that. What did you and Arthur do, put something in his drink? We all look forward to seeing you next week. Be a good boy and make certain my stepbrother __**gets enough sleep**__, as he'll be cranky otherwise, when he gets back. You can tell him that, according to John, the Institute's quarterly finances were in good shape, so we may not need to pimp him out after all. Give my love to Mordred. If he wants to come to New York and live with me, I'd be happy to have him. Morgana _

"Hey," Merlin said, pretending to frown. "You weren't supposed to read that."

"Well, don't tell her I did," Arthur replied, yawning. "She's got a lot of nerve, calling me cranky. And I get plenty of sleep." He actually had fallen asleep quite rapidly, the previous evening, exhausted after a mentally tiring day of negotiating with Cornelius Sigan and then having things out with Uther. It had been a restful night, although he would have preferred it if he had had Merlin lying next to him, burrowing his face against his shoulder, throwing one arm across Arthur's chest in his sleep, or making those occasional childlike snuffling noises that reminded Arthur of an overgrown puppy.

"I'll check my BlackBerry later," he muttered. Uther had left for a meeting with a colleague, not long after breakfast. He had been very subdued, and looked as close to being sulky - without actually being sulky - as Arthur had ever seen him, but he had thanked his son for finalizing the tapestry matter with Sigan, spoken a few pleasant words to Merlin in a rather strained voice, and ruffled Mordred's hair before heading out the front door. Mordred, who did not like to have his hair ruffled, had looked indignant, and Elaine had raised her eyebrows, glanced at the door as it closed with a snap, and given her stepson an apologetic look. It was now becoming apparent to Arthur, for the first time, that his stepmother might not be quite the total airhead he had always thought she was.

Merlin set the laptop to one side, and reached for the largest of the photograph albums.

"I've got to show you my favorite," he said seriously, although Arthur could sense that he was holding back laughter as he flipped through page after page of newborn Arthur sleeping or squalling in his crib, infant Arthur with hair like white-gold floss, dressed in cotton one-pieces, shorts, tee shirts with baby animals printed on them, floppy sunhats, and a puffy red snowsuit, before eventually locating the image he wanted.

"This is unbelievable," said Merlin, beginning to cackle. The photograph was of Arthur at ten months, already walking, clad in a nappy and brandishing a large rattle as though it were a weapon. The plump arms and legs, neatly brushed locks of golden hair, dimples, and round, angelic face belied the fierce expression in the wide blue eyes.

"No muscles there," Merlin said, still cackling. "This is before you discovered baby gyms, I suppose."

Arthur groaned in embarrassment and put his face in his hands.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After lunch, Arthur seemed to be in very good spirits.

"I've emailed the Dragon, I mean John, about the appraisal on the tapestry, and warned him that he'll need to have insurance in place for as soon as the piece gets to New York," he said. "He'll complain, as usual, but he'll do it, he's very methodical. It must be that combination of accounting and a law degree."

"Someday he's going to come crawling out of his cave in DC and lay waste to the Institute with his fiery breath," Merlin commented. "He's always complaining about how much money the Conservation Department spends on equipment and supplies. Well, gold leaf and acid-free tissue don't come cheap."

"I can't wait to get back," Arthur murmured. "I think I _need_ to get back, as it appears that my staff has gone off the deep end. My God, I hope they're not actually getting drunk at staff meetings."

"If we find Gaius and Geoffrey dancing on tables," Merlin replied. "We'll know something's seriously amiss. But I suppose they'll pull themselves together before we arrive. The first thing I'm going to do when I get home is get ten uninterrupted hours of sleep. What about you?"

"That's the second thing I'm going to do," Arthur said, smiling. "You know what the first thing is."

"Arthur!" Elaine called softly, appearing in the parlour door with Mordred in tow. "Don't forget, you have that Antiquities Society reception this evening at six."

"How could I forget?" Arthur asked grimly. "Thank God it's just cocktails. I couldn't stand it if it involved dinner. We'll find a restaurant afterwards, _Mer_lin, and have something light."

"You mean _I'll_ have something light," Merlin said. "You'll consume mass quantities, as usual." He ducked as his Assistant Director aimed a gentle slap at the side of his head. "Do I have to wear my suit?"

"Of course," Arthur snapped. "Your usual kit won't do at all for something like that. Even though it'll be mostly elderly scholars who wear trifocals and can't see past the end of their noses."

"You just say that because you like me in that suit," Merlin said.

"I like you better without it," Arthur retorted. "If you know what I mean."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I'd better go see that it's not wrinkled beyond repair, then," he murmured, and disappeared up the stairs.

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The cocktail reception for the Antiquities Society was held in a beautifully refurbished eighteenth-century hotel, in what must once have been the ballroom. It was a long white and gold room that ran the length of one side of the building, with French windows looking out onto the garden beyond. Long tables, laden with glasses and trays of tiny sandwiches and biscuits, lined one wall.

Uther had been a member for most of his adult life, like his father (Uther Senior) before him. He shepherded Arthur and Merlin out of the Kensington house and into a taxi several minutes before six, but by the time they arrived quite a number of people were already in attendance. Uther was immediately surrounded by friends and acquaintances, leaving Arthur and Merlin to make a beeline for the drinks table.

"Don't worry," Merlin whispered. "I'm only having seltzer and lime."

"Really," murmured Arthur, who had just spotted Cornelius Sigan at the other end of the room. "I think I'll need something a bit more robust."

For the next half hour they circulated dutifully, conversing with art connoisseurs, journalists, and one or two collectors. There were a few museum professionals present, and Arthur passed one of them, a pretty, buxom young red haired woman, as she exchanged business cards with Sigan. He was telling her about the latest addition to his collection, a stone gargoyle from a thirteenth-century French cathedral, life-sized and in excellent condition. Arthur was mildly ashamed to find himself wishing that the gargoyle would fall over on top of its new owner.

He veered away from Sigan and the young woman, hoping he hadn't been seen, and made casual conversation with Bayard from the Victoria and Albert Museum. Merlin had been talking with a group of conservators, from the look of them (for they were all rather young), junior conservators like himself. As Arthur watched, he strolled over to the drinks table in search of ginger beer, and came face to face with the founder of Raven Air. He held out his hand courteously, and Sigan took it, his eyes slowly traveling the length of him as if he were mentally peeling every scrap of clothing from Merlin's lean body.

For Arthur this was the last straw, and he was more than sorry that the situation prevented him from thrashing Sigan to within an inch of his life, or at least knocking him across the room, the way he had once punched Valiant.

("The gift is official now," Uther had said in the taxi, on the way to the reception. "Arrangements for transport have been made. Several art historical journals and two newspapers have been informed. If we play nice with Sigan, so to speak, he may donate some more of his collection to us someday. So let's not alienate him, Arthur, no matter how unsavory he may seem.")

Sigan was wearing his crocodile smile, and Arthur could see the blush that flooded Merlin's face and neck. He replied briefly to whatever Sigan had said to him, collected his drink, and returned to the other conservators, the crimson slowly fading from his face, his ears still pink.

The tapestry had been signed over. Formalities had been completed. The work of art was being crated the following week. Sigan couldn't take it back without creating a scandal. In spite of what Uther had said, Arthur found he didn't care whether Sigan gifted any additional objects from his collection to the Pendragon Institute in the future. He wanted to know why Sigan had gone to such lengths to "test" him, and what his real intentions towards Merlin had been. Had his machinations been solely for the purpose of ensuring that his tapestry was going to a "good home" with a conscientious museum director of admirable character?

With these questions in mind, Arthur fortified himself with a very strong drink, said a polite goodbye to Bayard, and marched across the room to where Cornelius Sigan was now idly toying with the arrangement of orchids on an ornamental side table.

Sigan looked up as Arthur approached and grinned, but his smile became fixed and his eyes bulged a little when he saw the look on the younger Pendragon's face.

"Cornelius," said Arthur with a social smile. He put out his hand and took Sigan by the upper arm. The gesture looked friendly, but his grip was like steel. Sigan's smile faltered a little and Arthur's grew broader, but his stare was ice cold.

"Perhaps we could have a little chat," he said quietly, and jerked his head towards the door to the garden. "Outside."

Sigan's eyes widened and then narrowed, and for a moment Arthur thought he would refuse, but the lanky collector simply shrugged and walked with him into the dark garden, damp with mist and loud with what sounded like a million crickets. There were some tiny white lights strung in the branches of the trees, and on the bushes, providing enough illumination for Arthur to see his companion clearly.

"Perhaps you think I was hitting on your young conservator," he said dryly before Arthur could speak. "It wasn't _exactly_ like that, not _really_. I generally don't poach on other people's preserves, and I would never try to steal him from you _permanently_. But he is quite delicious and you can't blame a man for _looking_."

"Oh?" replied Arthur in a glacial voice. "I thought you'd finished playing games with myself and Merlin."

"My dear fellow," Sigan murmured, sounding faintly on edge for the first time since Arthur had met him. "What on earth is the point of being so possessive? If I engage the boy in a private conversation, it's his business, and not yours. As for your _connection_ with him, your feelings on the matter are quite clear. I just wanted to know about his."

"Is that so?" said Arthur, keeping his voice pitched low, but anybody could have heard the anger in it. "You tell me this after all of your talk about _ethics_ and _tests_, and how you wanted your works of art to go to a museum whose director would never exchange a…a friend for a tapestry, and how you were impressed with my ethical, honorable character?"

"I wasn't lying," the collector said coldly. He was beginning to look nervous, his eyes darting about, but his voice was as angry as Arthur's. "I meant every word that I said about museum administrators and directors, and how it was important for them to maintain high standards of behavior. I fully intended to see whether you were a director of solid character, or not."

"In other words, heads of museums must be honorable, but collectors needn't be? What does that have to do with-" Arthur began, but Sigan interrupted him.

"When Aredian told me he was interested in getting some work from the Institute, I was curious enough to do some research on your Conservation Department, beyond what has been written in the popular press, that is. It was Aredian's idea to offer your newest conservator a position with my collection. I can afford to offer a larger salary than you can, after all, and there's nothing unfair about that. I know you're attached to the young man. But I had no idea how _he_, himself, felt, and I have an eye for beauty, as you obviously do. I didn't think there was anything wrong in my trying to find out what _his_ feelings are."

"I should have thought he made it clear to you when he turned down your offer," Arthur said in a voice of blistering contempt. "So much for _your_ sense of ethics, not to mention your common sense. Did you think that Merlin became my…my friend for the sake of money?"

"Don't think this means I won't hold you to your promise of an exhibition," the collector hissed. In a melodramatic manner, he drew his head back like that of a cobra about to strike, but Arthur was fully aware that this was a snake whose poison had been drawn.

"You needn't worry about your exhibition at the Institute," Arthur concluded, his voice still icy. His hold on Sigan's arm tightened, and he shook him a little. "You'll get your show, and your glory, and the banner in front of the museum with your name on it. Morgana will write the catalogue for you, or you can get another scholar to do it, I don't care which. But you're not to make any overtures, _of any sort_, to Merlin again. Have I made myself clear?"

"I don't think Uther would approve of this little conversation," Sigan said, but the wind had clearly gone out of his sails. "There are some objects he's still hoping to get from me. And that's not likely to happen, now."

"I don't care," Arthur replied, smiling suddenly. "And you can tell him whatever you please about me. I'm not that sixteen year old boy you knew years ago."

He released his grip on Sigan's arm, knowing there would be deep and ugly bruises where his fingers had been.

"I'll bid you good night, then," the collector rasped, his eyes flicking nervously in the direction of Arthur's hands. "I wish you a pleasant flight back to New York. _I'll see you there_." If he meant this last statement to sound ominous or threatening, he completely failed in his attempt. Arthur simply raised one eyebrow, and watched as Sigan took a step backwards, then turned, and retreated in the direction of the well-lit doorway.

"Go home and play with your gargoyle," Arthur muttered under his breath as he watched the collector re-enter the reception room. "I wouldn't touch the rest of your collection even if someone paid me to."

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"You told him _what!_" said Merlin, aghast.

"It doesn't matter," replied Arthur, looking very pleased with himself. "He's not the only collector with fine medieval pieces. And there are some beautiful objects coming up for auction next month, at Christies."

They had eaten dinner at a small Italian restaurant with a large clientele. The place had been crowded, but they squeezed into a small table near the window and Arthur consumed mass quantities of pasta carbonara, whilst Merlin nibbled at something that looked like a mixture of grilled string beans, potatoes, and eggplant. Now they were back in Uther's study (Uther was in the parlour with Elaine), watching Mordred single handedly defeat an army of hideous green, man-eating monsters on Uther's computer.

"Do you think you can beat them?" Arthur inquired of his intent younger brother. "Do you think you'll win?"

"I always win," Mordred said matter-of-factly as his virtual laser demolished yet another alien and splattered green slime all over the imaginary landscape. "Mum said you might take me to ride the roller coaster at Thorpe Park tomorrow."

"Oh God, I'd forgotten!" Arthur exclaimed, almost dropping his coffee. "We'll have to do it early, Mordred. Merlin and I need to pack in the afternoon."

"Speaking of which," Merlin said, rubbing his eyes, "I think I'll go upstairs and check the state of my luggage. After which I think I'll go to bed. D'you think we could take some of those old baby pictures back to New York, Arthur? They'd be good for a laugh when we need cheering up after staff meetings."

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When Arthur quietly slipped into Merlin's room shortly before midnight, he found his junior conservator half asleep and open travel cases strewn across the room.

Merlin sat up, rubbing his eyes a little, and Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed. As the weather had become unseasonably chilly, Elaine had provided Merlin with an old-fashioned white nightshirt, a long-sleeved, voluminous thing that hid most of him from view. Arthur surveyed it with a dissatisfied air.

"If we're taking Mordred to ride the roller coaster, or whatever, tomorrow," he said, tugging absently at the hem of Merlin's nightshirt, "we'll still have the afternoon and evening to pack."

Merlin replied with an enormous yawn.

"Are you very tired, _Mer_lin?" Arthur asked, hoping against hope that he would say no.

"I am," his conservator murmured sleepily. "But not _too_ tired." And he leaned drowsily against Arthur's shoulder, then turned so that their faces were inches apart, before moving close enough to brush their lips together. Arthur groaned and pulled Merlin against him, fisting his hand in a mass of heavy white fabric.

"I should thank you for keeping Sigan away from me at the reception," Merlin said, watching Arthur struggle out of his shirt. "He didn't come anywhere near me after his little talk with you. Wait…here." He retrieved a pair of gold cufflinks from the folds of his duvet with a practiced hand.

Arthur set the cufflinks on the bedside table. Then, having flung his clothing onto the floor in typical Arthur-fashion, he set to work pulling the nightshirt over Merlin's head.

"Hey, it's cold," Merlin said plaintively as Arthur did battle with the vast garment.

"I'll keep you warm," Arthur said with a prattish self-assurance that made Merlin smile. "I forgot to bring Mordred's Detector contraption," he added, tugging at what felt like yards of cloth.

"Wumfurmcum," replied Merlin earnestly, his head completely enveloped in folds of heavy cotton flannel as Arthur fought to disentangle him.

"What?" asked Arthur, finally managing to relieve his conservator of the nightshirt. He rested his hand lightly on the side of Merlin's neck, where it ran smoothly into the elegant, sloping line of his bony shoulder, and took the opportunity to admire the pearly glow of his skin in the dim light from the single bedside lamp.

"I said, what if your father comes in?" Merlin repeated, raking his fingers through his hair, which was now in total disarray. "Don't you think he'd keel over?"

"I took a two-hour class on how to administer CPR," Arthur replied. "Just in case. But he's not likely to walk into _your_ room. Budge up, will you?"

"I don't suppose he'd be all that surprised, at this point," Merlin conceded as he slid sideways to make room. "But he'd be disappointed in your lack of self control."

"Oh shut up, _Mer_lin," growled his Assistant Director. Their arms and legs were already entwined. "Switch off the light, if you can reach it. No one's going to come in if they see the room's dark. And if you make too much noise you can tell everybody you had a nightmare, in the morning."


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: Much Ado About Mordred**

Arthur, Merlin, and Mordred returned from the theme park in Surrey looking rather the worse for wear. Their hair was mostly standing on end, and their shirts were damp and wrinkled.

One of the fearsome roller coaster rides had nearly done them in, although Mordred seemed to have enjoyed it immensely.

The Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute admitted to having howled as the open cars hurtled down the steepest incline of the very noisy ride. Even Mordred, generally regarded by his family as a stoic whose poker-face could easily rival any ancient Roman philosopher's or politician's, had actually opened his mouth and screamed during the descent.

"What was that thing called?" Arthur asked, looking from his little half-brother to his junior conservator.

"The Scream-alot," replied Merlin with a straight face.

"Me and Merlin decided to go in the front, 'cause we thought it would be a really good idea," said Arthur, his English grammar abandoning him as his stomach quivered at the memory.

"How wrong we were," added Merlin faintly. Arthur glanced at him, remembering the way he had looked as the cars came to a blessed stop at the end of the ride: dark hair blown straight back from his ivory brow, the crispness of his clear-cut profile. His own fair hair had been transformed into a bird's nest, which he was unable to remedy without a comb, so he had put on his Ray-Bans in an effort to add a touch of cool to his disheveled appearance. Mordred's eyes had been shining, and he _giggled_ - which was most uncharacteristic of him - as he climbed out of the car, wobbling a little like everybody else.

"We spent most of the time yelling 'We're gonna die!'" Arthur concluded, thankful that he hadn't needed to make use of the plastic bag Merlin had thoughtfully handed him upon their arrival at the park. "Then we did one of the water rides, which was a bit less traumatizing."

"Although we got wet," Merlin said, rolling his eyes. "And some fellow with a microphone kept yelling at us to keep our hands in."

"My hands were in," Arthur interjected with a look of holier-than-thou condescension. "It was Merlin and Mordred who kept sticking their hands in the water."

"Well, it sounds as though you had a lovely time," Elaine murmured for Mordred's benefit, casting a sympathetic little smile at her stepson and his colleague, both of whom were slouched on the sofa wearing expressions of heroic exhaustion.

By the time Uther walked through the front door, in time for tea, his sons and Merlin had tidied themselves, changed their damp clothes for fresh ones, and were looking much less rattled. As Elaine handed round slices of tea cake and rolled gingersnaps filled with cream, Mordred calmly ventured an explanation of acceleration stress and centrifugal force, as experienced by passengers of rides like the roller coaster.

"Mordred," Uther said, looking slightly frustrated. "I think that perhaps you're spending too much time studying physics and not enough time getting fresh air and exercise."

"We got lots of fresh air today," Mordred stated flatly, his poker face once again intact. "And we screamed a lot. Have they got roller coasters in New York?"

"Darling," Elaine said to Arthur as she handed him a second cup of tea. "Why don't you and Merlin come to London for the winter holidays? Your cousin Galahad will be here, and I'll try to talk Morgana into flying over. We'll have our usual Christmas dinner party, even if renovations on the Belgravia house aren't finished and we're still here."

"There won't be enough room for all of us," Arthur began, but Elaine brushed this off.

"Nonsense, Galahad can have the guest room, and you and Merlin can share yours." She smiled at Arthur and then nudged Uther in the ribs before he could open his mouth. "Isn't that so, dear?"

"I, ah, yes, I suppose so," the senior Pendragon said unhappily, raising his head. "That is, we'd be pleased if you and...and, ah, Merlin could join us." He was making a grave effort at a cheerful expression, and for a moment Merlin almost felt sorry for him.

"That would be lovely," Elaine said triumphantly, looking sternly at her husband before patting Merlin on the arm.

"Miracles never cease," Arthur said under his breath to Merlin as he reached for another slice of tea cake.

"Your stepmother is amazing," Merlin whispered back, intercepting the slice of cake and shoveling it into his own mouth before Arthur could say anything.

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Watching Merlin pack was a memorable experience.

Shirts went in one pile. Jeans in another. Notes and papers in another. Every time Merlin turned around to deal with one of these piles, he seemed to knock another one over with one of his elbows. A series of mumbled curses would follow, and the piles would be assembled all over again. So far, only socks, underwear, the plastic-wrapped suit, and Merlin's deplorable brown jacket had made it into the luggage.

"Believe it or not," Merlin snapped, glaring at his Assistant Director from behind the stacked up gifts, folded tee shirts, and jeans. "I have this down to a science. Now please go away."

"No," said Arthur, settling into an armchair. "I'm going to watch you. This is better than a night at the theatre."

"I beg your pardon?" replied Merlin in his most uncooperative tone of voice. "I don't sit about and watch you pack your Brooks Brothers shirts and Prada jackets in your Louis Vuitton bags."

"I can hardly do that in your case, can I," Arthur retorted. "When your clothing would look normal on some skater boy in Central Park." He lifted a fallen tee shirt from the floor and shook it out. "You see? This has _I-belong-to Merlin-because-nobody-else-will-wear-me_ written all over it."

"It's not too late to accept Sigan's offer," Merlin said warningly. He realized a moment later that this was simply asking for trouble, because Arthur got out of the chair and launched himself at Merlin, pulling him down onto the floor and _tickling_ him mercilessly.

"A-A-Arthur, s-stop it!" gasped Merlin, writhing. "It's not fair!"

"Not until you take that back," was the reply, as Arthur's fingers skittered down Merlin's sides. They slid under the edge of his shirt, tapping lightly on the taut skin of his stomach, and Merlin yelped, bucking upward, tears of laughter beginning to gather in the corners of his eyes.

"Take that back, _Mer_lin," Arthur said sternly, holding him down without any great difficulty. He nudged one knee between Merlin's legs, securing him firmly to the floor, as his hands sought out what he assumed would be the most ticklish spots.

"Can't breathe!" panted Merlin, tears now pouring down his cheeks. "Arthur, puh…puh…puh-lease!"

Arthur was grinning evilly. "Not until you say it," he murmured. He had surreptitiously unfastened the button and zip of Merlin's jeans, and now he used one hand to push them down to his knees. This done, he ran the tips of his fingers along the inside of Merlin's thigh, and chuckled to hear the shriek that burst from his conservator's lips.

"Stop! S-stop, I take it back!" Merlin pleaded, squirming, and Arthur withdrew his hand, but did not move otherwise.

"That's better," he said, still holding Merlin flat. "I don't want to hear that mangy git's name again today, if you'd be so kind."

Merlin stared up at him, still getting his breath back, and began wiping the wetness from his face with one hand.

"Well?" said Arthur, smiling down.

"You're a bully, Arthur," whispered Merlin, pushing at Arthur's chest, but Arthur lowered his head and kissed the remains of his conservator's tears from the outside corners of his eyes, and his eyelashes, and his cheeks. Merlin lay still, looking astonished, but Arthur could feel his breathing beginning to quicken again as a pink glow spread across those remarkable cheekbones. He shifted to the side a little, to make things easier, and used one hand to work Merlin slowly, then rapidly, until he made a startled, frantic noise, turned his face into Arthur's shoulder, and exploded.

"I'm never going to pack with you in the same room again," Merlin announced several minutes later.

"That's gratitude for you," Arthur said with such a pleased look on his face that Merlin didn't know whether to frown or burst out laughing.

"You didn't...erm..." he said, gesturing vaguely, but Arthur was already sitting up.

"That's all right," he murmured. "We can take care of that later. I mean, we _will _take care of that later."

"I'm a sticky mess," said Merlin accusingly.

"Don't be such a girl, _Mer_lin," replied Arthur unfeelingly as he got to his feet. "I don't complain when you do that to me."

"Yeah, but I don't do that to you on the _floor _in somebody else's _home_, you prat," Merlin mumbled as he stood up and made his way to he bathroom, where he scrubbed at his stomach with a dampened towel. "I at least have _some_ sense of propriety."

"You have no sense of propriety whatsoever," Arthur said loftily. "The way you argue with your Assistant Director is beyond belief. I'm famished! Dinner in an hour - I don't think I can last until then." He went to the window and leaned his forehead against the coolness of the glass. He could hear Merlin moving about in the room behind him, fiddling with the luggage. Moments later, he joined Arthur at the window, close enough so that their shoulders were touching.

"It wasn't exactly what I would call a vacation, this trip," Merlin commented, turning his head to meet his companion's blue gaze. "But there was never a dull moment." He draped his arms loosely around Arthur's neck and stared pensively out the window, at the neighboring rooftops and the darkening grey of the London sky.

"True enough," Arthur murmured, leaning forward and pulling Merlin towards him. They stood lightly embraced, kissing slowly, until the light tap of footsteps - undoubtedly Mordred's - sounded in the hall outside Merlin's door. They went past, and Arthur sighed, tugging Merlin closer.

"Don't start something you can't finish," warned Merlin as Mordred's footsteps continued along the hall, moving in the direction of the stairs. "Did't you say you were famished? Let's go downstairs and try to find you a snack before you die from hunger."

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"About Mordred," Uther said to his older son, a scant half hour after dinner. "What do you think of this business of his wanting to go to New York?"

The two had retired to Uther's study, on the pretext of going over some papers before Arthur and Merlin's departure the following day. All of the arrangements had been made for the packing and air transport of Cornelius Sigan's tapestry, which would arrive in New York in a week's time.

"He hasn't given me a moment's peace," Uther continued. He now appeared to be as concerned about his second son as he was about his first. "He really _wants_ to do it."

"Mordred _wants_ to do a lot of things," Arthur replied, a little surprised that his father should have raised the subject. "I don't think it's a bad idea, actually, Mordred's spending some time in New York, but it would be difficult for me to take him."

He _had_ been giving a certain amount of thought to the idea of his half-brother moving to New York, if only temporarily. Elaine had already confessed to him that she worried about what could happen to the boy if he remained as he was: shy, withdrawn, often solitary, too scholastically advanced to have many friends among his peers. According to his mother, the precocious pre-pubescent had already fallen in and out of involvement with a number of peculiar things, including a "cult" led by a super-brainy individual called Myror. (Uther had put a stop to Mordred's attempt to join Myror's followers, but even he realized that the child was desperately seeking some sort of focus for his intellectual gifts.)

"Morgana's offered to look after him," Uther said, frowning. "She says there's plenty of room in her flat, and that she'd enjoy having him. Elaine thinks it might be a good thing, although of course she'd have to visit often. She doesn't much care for the school Mordred's attending at the moment. She calls it a snob factory."

Mordred attended a school for (wealthy) gifted children, as a day boy, with Uther's driver dropping him off in the morning and picking him up when classes were over. All of the pupils in his class were older than he, most of them at least fourteen. He had made only a few close friends among them, and, as he was so obviously an unusual child, it occurred to Arthur that perhaps he was being bullied by the senior boys.

At the same time, it amused him no end to hear his patently snobbish father complaining about a "snob factory."

Aloud, he said only, "Morgana's flat is palatial; there's plenty of space for Mordred. If she's really keen to have him, I think it would be great. I'm sure Mordred could get into Trinity, or one of those highly-rated schools, and if he wants to pursue advanced studies beyond that, we could always find him a tutor from Columbia University, or City University, or NYU. I'd be happy to take him places on weekends. And he, uh, gets on well with Merlin. He could drop into the Institute after school, and we could give him little 'jobs.' That might offer him something challenging to do beyond ordinary schoolwork. "

"It's not that I wouldn't miss him," Uther fretted, looking guilty and slightly uneasy. "It's just that he doesn't seem happy where he is. He's always been close to Morgana. And a different environment might get him to be a bit more outgoing. You know, more like...like...other children."

Privately, Arthur doubted this, but he thought it might be better to keep his thoughts about Mordred's personality and abilities to himself.

"School begins in early September," he said, wondering what American children would make of Mordred, and he of them. "If Elaine and Morgana make the arrangements, he'll be able to start the academic year without any difficulty. Once Elaine can get his school records transferred, I'll go and talk to the directors or headmasters of whichever schools might be appropriate."

"You don't think your staff at the Institute would mind a child like Mordred popping in and out of the place at will?" Uther asked drily.

"No, of course not," Arthur answered, smiling a little. "I know Merlin wouldn't. He'd be happy to let Mordred sit and watch him work."

"Oh," said Uther, as if at a loss as to how to respond to this. "Well...thank you, Arthur. I'm glad to have your help in this matter, as well as Morgana's. And thank...thank M-Merlin."

He spoke Merlin's name with difficulty, and Arthur rolled his eyes behind his father's back.

"Perhaps you should thank him yourself, Father," he said mildly, and watched as Uther rolled his own eyes in response.

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There was no denying it: Arthur was looking forward to New York. As much as he loved being back in London, visiting his old stomping grounds, he was anxious to get back to the Institute, his colleagues, and his own flat. And it t would be bliss to relax in his own bed again, to be able to sleep late on weekend mornings before going out to get the newspaper, or to simply laze in bed until almost noon, with Merlin's hard, angular body pressed tightly against his own.

Merlin wasn't with him tonight; Elaine and Mordred had accompanied him upstairs, offering to help him finish his packing. Arthur bunched pillows behind his head and shifted restlessly, hoping for sleep. They would be taking a taxi to the airport tomorrow, after a champagne brunch, and, no doubt, a lecture of some kind from Uther. Mordred would be told about his upcoming stay in New York. They would have to contact Morgana, to let her know what time they were getting back. It would be yet another exhausting day.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: Destiny and Chicken**

"Don't forget to switch off your mobile, _Mer_lin," Arthur said a little testily as the two stood waiting for their flight to be announced. "Where's your carry-on, you idiot? And your ticket? It looks like this plane's going to be crowded."

Merlin made no reply, merely shooting a reproachful look in Arthur's direction and waving his ticket in his face, before pointing to the carry-on bag on the floor at his feet. It was becoming clear that dealing with flight delays and hordes of fellow passengers made his Assistant Director restless and irritable. They had gotten to the airport early, after an elaborate champagne brunch with Uther, Elaine, and a bright-eyed Mordred, only to find that their plane was more than an hour late, and that weather over the Atlantic was going to make for moderate to heavy turbulence.

The brunch itself had been enjoyable, in spite of the uncertain expression on Uther's face every time Merlin was in his direct line of vision. True to form, Mordred kept his excitement at being told he was to go to New York neatly under wraps; only his smile and the look in his eyes gave away his pleasure. ("Any other child would be jumping up and down and shouting," Arthur sighed, looking at his half brother with puzzled affection.) Morgana had been notified via a lengthy telephone conversation, and told to expect the boy before the school year began. As they all stood on the pavement in front of the house, waiting for Uther's driver (Arthur had returned their rented car days earlier), Elaine had embraced her stepson warmly, and then had hugged Merlin and patted his cheek. Mordred had said nothing besides "Goodbye," but if this hadn't been _Mordred_, Arthur would have suspected that the glitter in his eyes was from unshed tears as he shook Merlin's hand.

"Did Father shake hands with you?" Arthur asked, stepped backward as a trio of shrieking children chased a beach ball past his legs, followed by an attractive teenaged girl who appeared to be their caregiver. The caregiver stopped long enough to give Arthur an appreciative stare, before chasing the children the length of the waiting area.

"Yes he did, and he even smiled," Merlin responded, with the ghost of a grin. Arthur quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing, looking at his conservator with approval. In the Vivienne Westwood jacket Arthur had practically forced him to wear, a black tee shirt and narrow grey jeans, he looked surprisingly stylish, in spite of the fact that his short, jagged layers of hair were partly standing on end from his having impatiently run his fingers through them. He was now staring at the pages of a magazine, the changeable blue of his eyes gone all misty and daydreamy in the way that always got Arthur's c-, er, libido, to stand up and take notice.

Trust Merlin to look distractingly beautiful when they were in the middle of an airport and there was nothing that Arthur could...could do about it.

Merlin looked up suddenly and caught him staring, causing Arthur to flush and bark, almost angrily, "Now what is it?"

"Nothing," Merlin said, surprised. Then he frowned. "Oh! I forgot to print out those last-minute email messages from Morgana. There was one from Gaius as well, and even one from _Leon._ What do you suppose they wanted?"

"If they were copied to me, I can get them on my BlackBerry," Arthur grumbled, fumbling for the device, which was buried in his carry-on bag.

"No, they were sent to my email, and you know I don't have one of those things," Merlin sighed dolefully. "This means Gaius will be cross with me." He yawned and rubbed his eyes. "I hate trying to sleep when there's turbulence."

"Oh cheer up, will you!" said Arthur gruffly, aiming a friendly punch at Merlin's arm, just below the shoulder.

His fist made contact with Merlin's bicep a bit more solidly than he had intended, and Merlin winced before rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"How is punching me in the arm meant to cheer me up?"

Before Arthur could reply, the three children, one clutching the beach ball, came barreling past them again, missing Merlin by inches but knocking over his carry-on bag. Their pretty caregiver gave both young men the once-over this time, before shepherding her unruly charges towards the waiting area seats.

"They're almost as dangerous as you are," Merlin said, rubbing his arm. "Look, they're finally posting our flight on the board; let's go."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"_Mer_lin, you're still positively _green_," said Arthur, a half hour after they deplaned at Kennedy Aiport. They were now standing in a taxi queue outside of their terminal, baking slowly in the New York heat and humidity. "Perhaps you should have had a drink, like I did, the last time those carts came round."

"_You_ slept through the turbulence," retorted Merlin, shifting his heaviest bag from one hand to the other. "And I don't have a cast-iron stomach like you do. Although my liver may be in better shape than yours at the moment."

"Ugh, this weather," Arthur muttered, completely ignoring his companion's remark about the condition of his internal organs. "It's like being stuck in a steambath, or having to wear one of Lance's beloved suits of armor, under a broiling sun."

"He's hoping the Institute will go for that sixteenth-century armor that's coming up at auction in the fall," Merlin began. Then he turned his head at the sound of a car horn, and found that a yellow cab had pulled up to the curb next to their modest pile of luggage.

"So, buddy, you want this cab or not?" shouted the driver, and Arthur quickly told him that they needed to put their various bags in the boot.

"The trunk, pal, the trunk. Youse English people have wierd names for everything," the driver grumbled. "Ya woulden believe some of the names I've heard."

"Don't forget your carry-on, Merlin," Arthur said, and then watched as the driver nearly bent double with laughter.

"At least your name isn't odd," Merlin whispered as they slid into the taxi. "There are plenty of Arthurs in New York."

"But not plenty of Pendragons, I hope," Arthur said loudly, and this set the driver off into another round of guffaws as he pulled away from the curb. "I'm having a moment of deja vu, here. I remember another cab driver finding your name amusing. You wouldn't recall that incident, as you were completely hammered at the time." **

"I was?" asked Merlin, surprised. "What? That night I got, erm, drunk at The Griffin? And woke up next morning _with you in my bed_?"

"I didn't lay a finger on you and you know it," snapped Arthur, fastening his seatbelt conscientiously. "That was before we, uh, anyway. Excuse me, driver! How's the traffic into Manhattan?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The doormen lining the block of flats looked exceedingly uncomfortable and unhappy in their uniforms as Arthur and Merlin retrieved their bags from the taxi and crossed the pavement to the entrance to their building. Sodden-looking pedestrians, dripping with sweat, walked past; the flowers in the large urn next to the entrance drooped in the heat. Once they were inside Arthur's flat ("_Our _flat," Arthur kept reminding Merlin), they switched on the central air conditioning, dropped their suitcases in the hallway with a crash, and hurled themselves into the shower. Refreshed, they staggered into the kitchen, where they poured themselves enormous glasses of cold water.

Arthur caught Merlin's eye. "I didn't want to have quick sex in the shower," he murmured, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead. "Now that we're back...I want us to be able to take our time when we-"

The telephone rang shrilly and Arthur glanced at the caller ID.

"It's Morgana, for God's sake don't answer it!" he groaned. "If you do, she'll be outside the door in a nanosecond."

Thirst quenched, with the temperature of the air around them gradually cooling to a bearable level, they took their carry-on bags - filled with Institute related paperwork - into the study to unload them. Arthur simply upended his bag and dumped the lot in the middle of his desk. Merlin could tell that he was eager to get both of them into a horizontal situation, but something, his own sense of mischief, perhaps, kept him from racing Arthur down the hall to the bedroom. Instead, he proceeded to remove papers, folders, and other material from his carry-on, working slowly and methodically, whilst Arthur pushed his Ray-Bans on top of his head, paced, and then finally switched on his computer and checked for emails.

"Good lord, look at this," he muttered, and Merlin looked. Morgana had scanned and emailed a color photograph of Gwen and Lance, standing hand in hand in front of a fresco in one of the Institute's galleries. They were smiling at each other in a completely besotted manner, and at the bottom of the picture Morgana had scrawled the word "DESTINY" in capital letters.

"I've never believed in destiny," muttered Arthur, raising his eyebrows as he studied the photograph of the happy couple. "Although I have to admit...since meeting you...I've actually wondered. Not that I really believe in it, mind, but, well, what are the odds of meeting your, uh, oh, you know, at your place of work?"

Merlin gave a sideways glance at Arthur, who had turned away from the computer screen and was now sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the quiet street. The brilliant sunlight - for it was not yet evening - framed his strong, handsomely chiseled profile, and turned the clear blond of his hair into a reflective nimbus of gold and bronze. Prat or not, nobody in his right mind could say he wasn't splendid, no, _gorgeous,_ to look at. Merlin smiled to himself and returned to his unpacking.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin had just finished unloading all of his papers onto his desk, sorted into more or less organized piles, when the doorbell rang, followed by a series of brisk knocks.

"It must be the superintendent," Arthur said uncertainly. "The doorman must have told him we're back, and he's returning the spare key. It's my destiny to be pestered when I'm trying to relax."

The knock sounded again, much more insistently.

"Perhaps that's destiny knocking right now," said Merlin demurely. "And it's knocking pretty impatiently, so I'd go and find out what it wants, if I were you."

Shrugging his shoulders histrionically, Arthur strolled down the hall to the door, and said "Yes? Who is it?" very loudly.

"Arthur, will you open this door!" came Morgana's voice, almost irate, from the other side. "My hands are full, and if you don't let me in this second, I'll drop everything on the floor and leave it for you to tidy up."

Sighing, Arthur opened the door and stood aside to allow his stepsister to enter. She was panting and there were tiny beads of sweat on her forehead, although she looked as stunning and fashionably put together as she always did. Her Coach bag was slung over one shoulder, and she was holding a lumpy shopping bag in her arms.

"I knew you'd be home by now, I checked your arrival time on line. So I brought you a welcome home present."

Arthur looked at her skeptically. "Morgana, I've been gone less than three weeks."

Morgana's crimson lips curved upward, and Arthur realized that Merlin had suddenly appeared just behind him. He stepped in front of Arthur and took the shopping bag from Morgana's hands.

"_Thank you_, Merlin, at least one of you is a gentleman. I knew there'd be nothing in your kitchen, so I brought you a roasted chicken," Morgana continued, finally catching her breath. "And some braised vegetables for Merlin. And a bottle of wine, and some apple juice. And don't worry, I can't stay. Leon's meeting me at the cafe across the street. But as you didn't answer the phone, and I know you're not going to check your voicemail 'til tomorrow, I thought I'd better tell you that we're all meeting at The Griffin this evening, after dinner, for coffee and drinks. About eight-thirty. Everybody will be there except Gaius. Oh, and Lance is bringing his best mate from university, Gwaine. He came round to the Institute last week and caused quite a stir amongst the girls in the library, I can tell you. Then we all went out for drinks. Lovely man, but there **_are_ **drawbacks to spending time in his company."

According to Morgana, it was nervewracking, going to a pub or almost anywhere else with Gwaine, because the man was a sexual opportunist.

"Erm, what does that mean?" Merlin asked innocently, and Morgana raised her eyes to the ceiling.

"It means that he's happy to shag anything that presents itself, female, male, or purple alien from outer space," she replied crisply. "He's the nicest fellow you could ever hope to meet, very pleasant and affable and all that, but he has the morals of an alley cat."

"Oh," said Merlin.

"You wouldn't believe the charisma...girls and guys were flocking to his side all evening," Morgana added with a sniff of mild disapproval. "He vanished at around midnight with some besotted young woman sporting a pink mini-Mohawk. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to go home with either of you, as well."

"Really?" said Arthur drily. "Well, I hope you've made...certain things plain to him. I won't have him hitting on...on...anybody in my staff."

"Oh, surely not," replied Morgana, looking evilly from her stepbrother to his conservator. "Of course you're a big boy, Arthur, you can protect your own. Now I must go, I'll be late meeting Leon. See you tonight?"

"Perhaps," Arthur said, shrugging. "If I...if _we _have the energy. And...thank you, Morgana, for this." He gestured at the shopping bag in Merlin's arms. "That was _surprisingly _thoughtful of you. Which leaves me to wonder whether there is some ulterior motive behind this generosity."

Morgana lifted her eyebrows at him, blew a kiss to Merlin, and departed, leaving Merlin clutching the grocery bag and Arthur frowning at the door, which he closed and double locked.

"Thank the gods! Now that she's gone," Arthur murmured, and took Merlin gently by the upper arm, only to feel him flinch a little. "Merlin, what is it?"

"Oh it's _nothing_," Merlin said a little sarcastically, but smiling. "Just a great bloody bruise where you punched me, before."

To his surprise, Arthur actually looked stricken for a moment, before covering his initial expression with a look of nonchalance. "I can't possibly have hurt you...let's take these bags into the bedroom, and then you can show me."

They headed down the hall, stopping on the way to deposit the chicken and other supplies in the kitchen.

"So you're glad to be home, then?" Merlin asked unnecessarily as they walked into the bedroom, dragging what was left of their luggage.

"Yes," said Arthur tersely, and was naked in what seemed like two seconds flat. Merlin gawped at him, but Arthur was in no mood to be stared at. He reached out, pulled Merlin's tee shirt over his head, and then inspected the purpling bruise on his arm.

"Sorry," he said with genuine contrition. "You can hit me back, if you like."

"I have no interest in sado-masochism," Merlin announced with dignity, as he got to work on the fastening of his jeans. "What would be the point of hitting you? I'd only feel like an ass, and you'd laugh at me."

They made it to the bed in a series of awkward movements, stumbling over fallen luggage and tripping over Arthur's discarded clothes. Arthur barked his knee on the edge of the bed, and Merlin narrowly missed elbowing Arthur in the ribs. Once they were there, lying face to face, Arthur drew Merlin's wrist up to his mouth and kissed it, and then leaned over to kiss the bruise on his upper arm.

"It doesn't really hurt, you know," Merlin began before Arthur silenced him. One arm slid firmly around Merlin's waist, dragging him closer, and Arthur's free hand gripped his hair. They rolled about, kissing very slowly, getting their legs tangled up in the bedclothes, and after a while Merlin managed to maneuver himself into the uppermost position. He nibbled carefully up the length of Arthur's torso to his throat, jawline and chin, nipping very lightly with his teeth, and avoiding Arthur's attempts to latch onto his mouth.

"Tease," said Arthur, tightening his fingers in Merlin's hair to hold his head still, and capturing his lips with an effort.

"We're not really going to join Morgana and Company at The Griffin, are we?" Merlin asked, once he was permitted to have use of his tongue.

"No, of course not," growled Arthur, nuzzling his ear. "I'm in no condition to get up, get dressed, and drag you all the way to The Griffin just to get drunk and meet up with our colleagues, and that fellow Gwaine."

"Especially as, according to Morgana, he'd be likely to proposition one or the other of us, if he has no success with the girls," Merlin added, rubbing his thumbs lightly over Arthur's hipbones.

"Well, he can't have you," Arthur said, easing them over deftly so that he was on top. "I absolutely forbid it."

"Bossy prat," whispered Merlin. "Not that he would want me." He was prepared to expound on reasons why Gwaine wasn't likely to desire him, but Arthur put a finger on his parted lips and stared down at him. Merlin blinked and stared back.

"Beautiful _Mer_lin," Arthur said gently, because he _just knew_ that this would embarrass his conservator and make him squirm. And because he meant it. "Beautiful Merlin," he said again, whispering, and watched a faint blush spread across those unbelievable cheekbones.

"At least, now we're in our own bed, you can make as much noise as you want and it won't matter," he added cheerfully, his hands on Merlin's waist. He shifted purposefully. "You can make those little whimpering sounds and not have to worry that somebody will hear you."

"I don't whimper," said Merlin indignantly, and then whimpered.

"What did you say?" murmured Arthur, smiling against his hair.

"At...least...I don't...groan...as loudly as...you do," Merlin gasped. "And I..._oh_, Arthur!"

"I really do lo...need you, you impossible idiot," Arthur replied through his quickened breathing. "It's good to be home."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I don't think they're going to put in an appearance after all," Lance said to Gwen as they relaxed in their customary booth at The Griffin. "I didn't think they would."

"They must be exhausted," Gwen sighed in agreement. "According to Merlin's emails, their visit wasn't exactly _relaxing_. Well, I hope it wasn't _all _business and stress."

"Bloody Uther," Will mumbled from the other side of the table.

Leon chuckled. "When Morgana and I were in London, Arthur bought Merlin a jacket. So it wasn't _all _work."

Will looked incredulous and Gwen opened her mouth in surprise. "Arthur did _what_?" she asked, astounded. "Bought Merlin a _jacket_?" She pulled her mobile phone out of her purse and looked at it indecisively.

"Don't ring them up now, for pity's sake," Lance expostulated. "They'll be sleeping."

"No they won't," Morgana interjected, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she raised her elegant eyebrows. "But they'll definitely be in bed, so you were close, Lance. And I don't think they'd welcome an interruption of any sort, even from a dish of a colleague like yourself."

* * *

**** In Chapter 8 of **_**Inside the Pendragon Institute**_


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33: Love in the Time of Road Construction**

"I can't hear myself think," complained the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute, glowering at his office window. "Why didn't any of you tell me this was going on?"

It was his first day back to work, the day after returning to New York from London, and to his dismay there were massive repairs being done to the pipes beneath the street on which the museum stood. A backhoe and pneumatic drills filled the air with loud bangs and rattles, traffic backed up in the narrow lane that was all that was left for cars to traverse, and construction workers in hard hats shouted to each other over the din. Disgruntled drivers honked their horns vehemently, adding to the noise level.

Faced with his first staff meeting in several weeks, Arthur attempted to put a good face on things, even when most of his staff appeared to be sniggering at his discomfiture.

"We thought we'd save this as a little surprise for you," Morgana said flatly, looking around her stepbrother's office at her assembled colleagues. Everybody was there - except for Merlin - and almost everyone wore an expression of tired resignation. The exception was Geoffrey Monmouth, who was, after all, getting to be more than a little deaf. He had left off his hearing aid and was smiling with a kind of benign amusement.

"Where's Merlin?" asked Leon, taking advantage of a lull in the drilling outside. "He isn't ill, I hope."

"No, he's just late as usual," snapped Arthur. "I suppose he'll say he was in the middle of a tricky bit of conservation, when he does deign to show his face."

"He was just finishing up the last touches on our beloved John the Baptist sculpture," shouted Gaius at the top of his voice as drilling resumed. "So its head can't possibly fall off. He'll be here directly."

"_What_?" everybody else shrieked, and Arthur put his hands over his ears, gritting his teeth.

"At this rate," he announced in a normal tone of voice, as the drilling halted once again. "We'd never know it if someone made off with a work of art. We wouldn't be able to hear the alarm. Or the fire alarm, if some lunatic set fire to the wooden sculptures."

"Oh Arthur, don't!" yelled Gwen, as the backhoe roared into life. "What a horrid thought."

The door to Arthur's office opened, and Merlin appeared, wearing a pair of _ear muffs_. He was rewarded with a burst of laughter from the rest of the room.

"I found these in Gaius' closet," he said, looking faintly embarrassed. "With his old winter cardigan. I'm sorry I'm late, I was just finishing-"

"Yes, we know, Merlin, it's alright," bellowed Gaius affably. "Come and sit down."

"That's brilliant, Merlin," Lance said, looking at the ear muffs and grinning broadly. "I wish I'd thought of that. I've a pair in my office somewhere, left over from that snowfall last February."

There was a booming noise as the backhoe dumped chunks of cement into the back of a truck.

"My God, I think the wall's vibrating," said Will in alarm, placing his hand on the door jamb. "If any of the art falls over, we can sue the city."

"_I _think," shouted the Assistant Director, "that we should forget about trying to get any business done at the moment. We'll go to lunch at Hengist's Grill and do our talking there. The management won't mind, they're accustomed to our little gatherings."

The Institute staff seemed only to happy to agree with him, and Arthur glanced quickly at Merlin, who was sitting opposite him, between (as usual) Gwen and Will. He was shifting slightly on the sofa, and Arthur realized that he himself had been moving uncomfortably in his chair. As he was hardly prepared to acknowledge that this was because they were _both_ a bit _sore_ (they had been up until all hours the night before), he stood up abruptly and called an end to the meeting.

"By the way, I heard your bridal shower was splendid," he said to Gwen in the hallway, where the noise was somewhat less deafening. "When's the wedding, Gwen?"

"Early September, love," she replied, standing on tiptoe to put an arm around his shoulders. "When it'll be cooler. Does your offer still stand, to give me away? As I've no dad to march down the aisle with, it might as well be with my favorite ex."

"Of course," Arthur said gruffly. "Though Lance did ask me to stand up with him...am I going to be able to do both?"

The pneumatic drill started up again, making them both wince.

"Are we going to the Grill now, or later?" Morgana shrieked from the other end of the hall. Several male visitors to the museum turned their heads, perhaps in the hope that she was speaking to them. "If we're not, I'm putting my notes and things back in my office."

"In fifteen minutes," Arthur shouted, and headed for the stairs to the basement, and the Conservation studios.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"If you love me, you'll stop thrashing about," Arthur had murmured the previous night. "How am I supposed to sleep?"

Exhausted and finally sated, he had been sprawled on his back with Merlin curled up against him, his head in its usual place on Arthur's shoulder. Merlin's forefinger was idly drawing patterns over Arthur's well defined pectoral muscles, and his eyes were half-closed with contentment and fatigue.

"Who says I love you?" Merlin whispered, yawning and hooking one leg over Arthur's.

"Well, you do, for starters," Arthur had replied tartly. "Merlin, stop wiggling." He pulled the sheet up to Merlin's chin, exulting in the feel of that skin, those thin limbs, pressed to his side. What bliss, to be able to hold that light, flexible body in his arms and not worry that somebody might be just outside the door. What ecstasy to have the time to run his hands slowly and lingeringly along the complete length of him, or to cry out with pleasure without fear of being overheard.

"Sleep," he had said, brushing his mouth in the most careful of goodnight kisses over Merlin's swollen lips, drawing his fingers softly down the long line of his back.

"How c'n I sleep," Merlin mumbled indistinctly, "when you keep doing stuff like that to me?"

"Okay," Arthur replied, smothering his own yawn. "No more hands, no more kissing. Close your eyes." He had wrapped his arms around Merlin's shoulders and settled back into the pillows, almost dizzy with a happiness _that he was not going to admit to_, not aloud.

Arthur pushed these things from his mind as he entered the Paper Conservation studio, where Gaius and Merlin were frowning over a twelfth-century psalter they had just managed to unbind.

"Ah, Arthur," Gaius said, raising his head. "It's just a bit quieter down here. Time to go, is it? Should we ring up the Grill and ask them to save a large table?"

"No, they don't accept reservations," the Assistant Director replied. "They're not exactly a high-end restaurant. But yes, we should probably be on our way. The place will be crowded as it is."

"Right," said Gaius, straightening his back with a grunt. "Thank you, Merlin, I think this manuscript will be fine for the moment. Arthur, Merlin tells me Sigan's tapestry should be arriving in two weeks."

"It's not Sigan's tapestry any more," growled Arthur, forcing himself to look away from Merlin's luminous smile. "You've heard that we'll be hosting an exhibition of his collection next year, I suppose. Father's sending the paperwork, and the contract."

"The Dra...John won't be thrilled," Gaius muttered drily, referring to their irascible Director of Finance. "But we do have funds for an exhibition, so I think it will be alright. Come along, Merlin, and don't forget to wash that glue off your hands."

"Those arseholes usually stop for lunch," Will called from the doorway. "But not today. They're still pounding away. I'm amazed that people are actually visiting this museum. Let's get out of here before Morgana loses her temper. She's upstairs, fantasizing about throwing things at those hard hatted fellows."

"It's not their fault, Will, for pity's sake," Gaius said irritably, frowning at his Objects Conservator. "They're just doing their job, is all."

"Pardon my language, Gaius," Will retorted. "But could we get the fuck out of here before we all lose our tempers?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Naturally, the moment the museum staffers left the building and headed down the block, the road crew and construction workers ("deconstruction workers," Morgana called them) broke for lunch.

There was some mumbled cursing and laughter amongst the Institute staff, but Arthur said that it was just as well they were going out, because if they went back indoors the drilling and crashing was guaranteed to start up immediately.

Once ensconced at their table in Hengist's Grill ("Is there an actual Mr Hengist?" Merlin wondered out loud, and everybody else roared with mirth), they ordered their usual beefburgers and soda. Gwen thoughtfully dashed across the street and brought back a dish of pasta with something that looked like pesto sauce mixed with pine nuts for Merlin. Only a few of them had brought their notepads, and Arthur said simply that this meeting would be informal, but that he would like to be filled in on whatever had gone on during his and Merlin's absence.

It soon became evident that very little had gone on, apart from Gwen's bridal shower, and Lance's introduction of Gwaine, his unquestionably rambunctious, longtime mate, to the Institute and its denizens. Morgana had begun work on the text of the new guidebook. Will had accidentally tripped the fire alarms twice. ("Were you smoking something in the supply room, Will?" Morgana asked suspiciously.) Gaius had argued with The Dragon over the cost of conservation supplies. Leon's security guards had caught a passion-crazed couple trying to go at it in a dark corner of the fresco gallery. Once these incidents had been recounted, everybody wanted to hear about the visit to London, and whether Sigan's tapestry was as wonderful as it looked in photographs, and whether Uther had behaved himself in the face of his son's, well, you know...his refusal to do whatever his father wanted, and was little Mordred _really_ coming to live in New York?

"Yes, yes, and yes," murmured the Assistant Director. "And Mordred will be living with Morgana. He'll be stopping in the Institute from time to time, and I hope you won't mind too much. Merlin's going to let him watch his conservation work."

"Good lord," said Will, blanching. "Is the little squi...I mean your little brother going to be hanging out in the Conservation studios _every day_?"

"No, Will," Merlin hastened to reassure him. "When he does come by, he'll be mostly with me, or with his sister. I don't think he'll be spending much time in Objects Conservation."

He raised his iced coffee to his lips and the Pendragon signet ring on his finger clinked against the glass. His colleagues exchanged glances.

"I wonder how Uther reacted to _that_," Lance said to Gwen under his breath.

"When the tapestry arrives from London," Arthur was saying, "I'd like Will, and maybe Gwen, to go out to the aiport and see it through customs and back to the city. It shouldn't take long, arrangements have been made. Then Gwen will have to look it over before we can put it on display."

"I can't wait," Gwen said excitedly. "I can't wait to see it. Such a lovely thing. I'll make room for it in my studio straight away."

"At least we don't have to worry about Aredian hovering over it," Will muttered. "The nerve of the man, trying to worm his way into our department, even on a freelance basis. If he had come here, Arthur, you would have ended up with one conservator less. I really don't think I could have worked with him."

"Oh, Gaius would have murdered him eventually," Arthur said, grinning, although he nudged his Head Conservator's arm apologetically as he spoke.

"Very funny, Arthur," Gaius responded in a very dry voice, but he was smiling almost as widely.

"This tapestry," Gwen said, looking pleased, "should be a real draw for visitors. For students as well. Good old John must be thrilled that we didn't have to pay a price for it."

"We almost did," Arthur murmured, looking at Merlin.

"Oh...right!" Gwen stammered, remembering. "Morgana told us about it. The cheek of that man Sigan! Trying to steal one of our conservators. Suggesting that we use Aredian for a while, instead! That would have been awful for...for all of us."

"It wouldn't have been a picnic for me either," Merlin said quietly, wrinkling his nose with distaste.

"Morgana wouldn't have let it happen," Leon commented, grinning. "If Sigan had had his way, and Aredian had come marching through the front door, she would have met him with-"

"An army of the dead," Merlin whispered to Arthur.

"-with a spear in one hand and a broadsword in the other," Leon concluded, grinning.

"Filched from the arms and armor display in the galleries," Lance added.

"And smiling her evil, smirky smile," Arthur said. "I ought to know."

"Are you boys mad?" said Morgana crossly. "I can't even lift one of those broadswords. Oh shut up, Arthur, I don't smirk. I leave that sort of thing to you."

"On that cordial note from our Senior Curator, perhaps we should wrap things up and head back to work," said the Assistant Director. "Unless any of you wants a second beefburger. And," he concluded, looking sideways at his frowning stepsister, "you do smirk, all the time. That nasty little evil grin. Don't try to deny it, because everybody here sees it on a regular basis."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I can't believe it," Arthur said, rubbing his temples with both fists. "My ears are still ringing. Leon says we're in for at least another week of this. If the pounding really does start shaking the walls, I really will have to call the city and complain."

He strode down the hallway towards the bedroom. "At least that tapestry business is taken care of. Will will go to the airport in the truck with the packers, to pick it up, see it through customs, and bring it back. Gwen's already planning how to exhibit it. Gaius is as happy as a clam, now that he doesn't have to worry about Aredian. Morgana's getting her spare bedroom ready for Mordred's arrival. And as you had the _unusual _presence of mind to buy that porcelain, uh, thing in Ealdor, we needn't worry about getting Gwen and Lance's wedding gift at the last minute."

Surprised that there had been no reply to any of this - Merlin was usually quick with some mildly critical or sarcastic comment on any of his pronouncements - he pushed open the bedroom door to find his junior conservator sitting cross legged on a cushion on the floor, oblivious to everything around him.

Merlin was listening to music on Arthur's headphones. His short fringe was sticking out every which way, his eyes were closed, and he was wearing a faint, almost childlike smile, but it was impossible to tell whether he was listening to a loud and raucous metal band, old Beatles songs, an Irish reel, or Puccini opera arias.

Arthur wasn't accustomed to using the word "adorable" (a term he associated with small puppies, kittens, and Easter bunnies), but if this wasn't adorable, he didn't know what was.

"It's Puccini," Merlin said, his eyes popping open when Arthur nudged his ankle with his foot. He had taken to listening to opera - not something he had paid much attention to in the past - ever since becoming accustomed to the morning warblings of their next door neighbor, the Metropolitan Opera soprano.

"Cosima will be pleased," Arthur said, referring to that same neighbor. "She'll be thrilled to know you're a convert. But I wouldn't mind if she stopped practicing in the morning and switched to afternoons. When we're not here."

"You just don't like listening to her when you're still sleepy and you've only just crawled out from under the covers," Merlin replied. "I think it's nice to have live music at that time of day." Then he saw the expression on his Assistant Director's face, and stood up, backing away from the bed. "No...no Arthur, not _before dinner_!"

Arthur's lips twitched with amusement. "Right, what's for dinner, then? I have leftover chicken, and there's soup and that tofu 'meatloaf' you bought on the way home. D'you suppose that'll do? I'm not expecting Morgana to come round with another offering of food."

"I think there's enough in the fridge," Merlin said, having made it to the door without being intercepted. "But we forgot to buy anything for breakfast."

"I'll have _you_ for breakfast," Arthur announced loudly, taking a step forward. "First things first, though. Are you sure we have enough food for dinner? Because if not, we can try that new Italian restaurant on Madison Avenue. Lance says they do an excellent vegetarian lasagna."

* * *

**On the basis of PaopuKitten's accurate criticsim and good advice, I've tried to give Merlin a somewhat more varied diet than just roasted vegetables! **

**A couple of chapters to go until the end. Thank you to all of my readers for staying with this very loooong fic.**


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: Before the Wedding March**

When Cornelius Sigan's gift, which officially had been named "The Courtiers' Tapestry" by the Pendragon step-siblings, arrived at the Pendragon Institute a little over a week later, Gallery Three of the museum was prepared to receive it.

What Merlin had not been prepared for was the "ooohs" and "aaaahs" that greeted its initial unveiling, before the entire staff. As it was a Monday, the museum was closed to the public, and his colleagues stood about the gallery ("For pity's sake, don't lean on the sculptures!" shouted Gaius), staring at the tapestry, or inspecting it, close up, with magnifying lenses. Merlin's close resemblance to the mysterious dark-haired figure was noted instantly by his keen-eyed fellow conservators ("It wasn't quite so obvious in the photos!"), and it seemed to him that they were making a tremendous fuss about it.

There was no question that the tapestry looked magnificent on the gallery wall, the brilliant crimsons and blues and greens, and the gold thread, catching the light. It was easy to admire the courtly ladies with their rich ornaments, dangling sleeves, and long, aristocratic hands, flanked by the noblemen and the armored knight. Set against the flat, mille-fleurs background, the lavishly-clad, attenuated figures appeared to stare outward at their audience. Except for the slender, dark-haired male with eyes slightly downcast and head slightly turned in a manner reminiscent of the Institute's junior conservator.

"_We_ can call it the Merlin Tapestry," Lance said with satisfaction. "Amongst ourselves, anyway." Gwen laughed and everybody agreed but Merlin himself. He turned an interesting shade of embarrassment and left the room shortly afterward, Arthur's eyes following him through the door.

Moments later, he reappeared with the label meant to accompany the tapestry, and Tom, the technician whose job it was to affix the label to the wall, next to the work of art. This process took several minutes, after which they all crowded around to read and comment on the label text.

When everybody had left the room except for Arthur, Merlin, and Gwen, the Assistant Director stood still, hands behind his back, studying the overall effect for several minutes.

"It looks great," he finally said. "Gwen, you and the technicians did an excellent job hanging that thing. It's heavy, it can't have been easy. And I'm grateful you wrote the text for the label, it's excellent."

"Thanks, love," Gwen replied. "Merlin helped me with it."

"_Mer_lin! What, Gwen! He's not an art historian and has no business writing label text," Arthur said sternly.

"Good job I'm deaf as well as dumb," Merlin mumbled sarcastically, eyes rolling.

"Well, I'm not an art historian either. But I certainly know enough about textiles to write a simple one-paragraph label text without any problem," Gwen said defensively. "Merlin knows quite a lot as well. About the weaving techniques they used in those days, and so on." Her mobile phone beeped shrilly, and she pulled it from her pocket, snapping it open. "Yes?"

"Hey, no phone usage in the galleries! We don't let the public do it, so we shouldn't, either," Arthur hissed.

Gwen patently ignored this. "Don't be silly, Arthur, the public isn't here today. Oh, it's you, La-La. Yes, I'll be there in five minutes, I just need to stop in Gaius' office for something. And don't forget, we're all going to The Griffin this evening. Didn't Gwaine say he'd meet us there at eight?"

"_La-La_?" said Arthur unbelievingly as Gwen strode away. "The poor girl's demented. The things love does to one!"

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As it was Monday, the Institute staff was meant to be taking advantage of the public's absence by catching up on paperwork and emails, making calls, and sending faxes. They were also meant to be reviewing the displays in the galleries and deciding whether or not it was time to rotate some of the objects - exhibit some works of art currently in storage, and give other objects a rest. However, the theme that was beginning to dominate staff activity was clearly the pending marriage of its textile conservator to the curator of arms and armor. For most of that afternoon, Gwen and Morgana were holed up in Gwen's office, going over wedding plans, looking at catalogues of wedding dresses, talking about what sort of music would be best, and which flowers they should order. Because of the current economy, Gwen had decided that a large, elaborate wedding would be neither appropriate nor particularly affordable (she and Lance were saving to buy a little house outside of the city), and the ceremony itself would be a small, private affair on the grounds of a country house belonging to one of Morgana's friends.

Arthur ran across Gwen and Morgana shortly after five, as they were all filing out of the building. Both were still chattering away like magpies, Gwen brandishing a magazine photo of a beautiful white dress with an abbreviated train, Morgana insisting that Lance should wear a morning suit, complete with the jacket and the waistcoat, and all the rest.

"He would look so divine in one," she was saying, sweeping past Arthur as though he were a post. "A dark grey jacket and a lighter grey waistcoat. With the striped trousers. Beautiful." She _giggled_ - it had been ages since her stepbrother had heard her giggle like a teenaged girl - and Gwen sighed ecstatically.

Arthur's face was a study in horror.

"Never _ever_ go anywhere near women when they're talking about clothes," he grumbled to Lance and Merlin, who were walking behind him, trying not to gasp in the nailing summer heat. "They turn into...I'm not quite sure what it is, but it's painful to watch and listen to. Let's walk slowly, so we don't catch them up. If I hear Gwen say_ La-La_ one more time, I'm going to be sick."

"Any word from Cornelius Sigan about the exhibition we're supposed to give his collection next year?" Lance asked, looking mildly sheepish at the mention of Gwen's latest pet name for him. "If he's serious about lending us all that material, we'll need to start looking into insurance coverage, and begin research for the catalogue."

"Oh, he's serious, all right," Arthur said grimly. "And he's a slimy git to boot, but he'll behave himself. He wants this exhibition more than anything. Driven by ego and a love of fame, you know."

"A pity we're going to have to deal with that man in person when the exhibition opens," Merlin said in a subdued voice, once he and Arthur were collapsed in their kitchen, drinking iced coffee and making an effort to contemplate dinner. "I can't say I'm looking forward to seeing him again, even in a purely business-related context."

"It's all right, Mer-Mer," Arthur said smugly. He had flung off most of his clothes, unearthed an old, comfortable pair of jeans, and was now wearing nothing but this and a wristwatch. "Sigan knows that if he ever tried to lay a hand, or anything else, on you, he'd get more than a black eye from me."

"_What_ did you just call me?" choked Merlin, horrified.

"Just joking," replied Arthur, reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'm not going to call you Mer-Mer again. Unless I'm really furious with you."

"If you do, I'll call you something horrible, like Artie-Diddums," Merlin snapped.

"When Bayard and Cenred were together, Bayard used to call Cen Mrs De Mercia," Arthur chuckled.

"If you ever call me Mrs Pendragon, I'll hit you," Merlin replied. "I'd never dream of calling _you_ Mrs Emrys."

"Stop putting ideas in my head," Arthur murmured, inching closer to his junior conservator and wrapping one arm around him. Then he yawned. "Imagine, a Pendragon-Emrys wedding. Father would have to be wheeled into the ICU at the nearest hospital. Although I suppose you'd be quite fetching in a stylish white tux."

"_A...white...tux!_" sputtered Merlin, appalled. "Arthur, have you run mad? Nobody around here is getting married except for Gwen and Lance. Now would you please come to your senses and get dressed? We'll be late, if we want to have something to eat before going to The Griffin."

"Well, well, Merlin," Arthur said, grinning and raising one eyebrow. "I can see that you quite _enjoy_ giving orders from time to time. That should prove entertaining." He yawned again, rubbing his eyes. "I don't know why I feel so tired. My brain isn't working."

"The rest of you seems to be," retorted Merlin, just a little cynically. "And _you_ order_ me_ about, constantly. We'd better get moving if we want to meet the others at The Griffin. That is, if we want to get there before they're all insensible from drink."

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Their colleagues from the Institute were indeed looking extremely cheerful by the time Arthur and Merlin walked through the door into the handsome, wood-paneled space. Lance lost no time in introducing them to his friend Gwaine, who had been lounging casually by the bar, chatting with the ladies and nursing a very tall Long Island Iced Tea.

"Oh my god!" groaned Merlin at the sight. "Do you know what's in those things? Gin, vodka, tequila, rum, triple sec, and Coke. And no tea whatsoever."

"I'll see to it that you don't have one, then," Arthur replied under his breath.

"I don't drink that stuff," Merlin whispered. "One is more than enough to put some people in the gutter."

Gwaine was, Arthur had to admit, a very good looking man, dark-haired and bearded, not as classically handsome as Lance, but possessed of an unmistakable, rugged appeal. His gaze, when it rested on the Assistant Director and junior conservator, was frankly admiring, although it was obvious that his primary focus of attention was Gwen and Morgana. Lance seemed to take his friend's flirtatiousness in stride, and simply shrugged his shoulders when Gwaine put his arm around Gwen's shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

"He's from Dublin," Lance said as he sat down at one of the small tables with Arthur and Merlin. "But he's lived in New York for years." He proceeded to tell them that Gwaine had just been hired by the Metropolitan Museum to join the ranks of their technicians ("A fancy word for art handler," Arthur smiled), and would thus be only a few blocks away, and available to join them for drinks after work whenever the occasion called for it.

Not long after this, Arthur and Lance went to the bar for a lager, and Gaius and Gwen sat down with Merlin.

"I know you were only away for a few weeks," Gaius said cheerfully to Merlin. "But it's good to have you back. Our John the Baptist looks wonderful now; I think we can put him back on exhibition. That was nice work you did, reinforcing his neck. Even Will thought it was brilliant."

"Oh, good!" sighed Gwen over the rim of her glass. The sight of her fiance and his friend getting quietly plastered, in the willing company of Leon and Will, had inspired her to drink moderately and stick to wine. "The gallery hasn't looked the same since we took John out of it. Let's put him back next week. Merlin, I don't know how you stabilized him so quickly!"

"It's like magic, as usual," chuckled Gaius, patting Merlin on the shoulder affectionately. "Sorcery, no less. I've never met anybody with better hands for this sort of work than Merlin."

"Well," Gwen smiled, setting down her glass. "Sorcery, is it? We Muggles are in your debt, Merlin. In fact, we'll all drink to your health."

"You'll drink to anything, all of you, at this point," Arthur said wryly, rejoining them, and depositing a tall glass of ginger ale in front of his junior conservator. He had been talking with Lance and Gwaine at the bar, and was smiling. "Lance and I have been discussing your wedding, Gwen. As I can't walk you down the aisle, and be Lance's best man at the same time, we've decided that Gwaine should stand up with Lance, and I'll escort you to the altar_ in loco parentis_. That solves everything nicely, don't you think?"

"You're a dear, Arthur," Gwen murmured, blushing. "And you'll be the most gorgeous father-substitute anybody's ever seen."

"Bloody right I will be," Arthur agreed, looking dubiously at the second Long Island Iced Tea that had just been set on the bar, this time in front of Leon. "Stop sniggering, Merlin! I will! Are you still looking for a ring-bearer, Gwen? Perhaps Mordred could do it. Now, what was it you were talking about before I rejoined you?"

"Merlin's hands, Arthur," said Gwen solemnly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "Gaius says he's never seen the like. That he works magic with them."

"Er," said Arthur, and then fell silent, thinking about Merlin's hands. They were...they were elegantly shaped, long and slender, with long, slender fingers. What they did to Arthur was like nothing he had ever experienced with anybody else. Whether he was running them over Arthur's shoulders or back or chest, or...and his fingers, when he slid them in...to be replaced, after a bit, by...Of course, that was usually Arthur's role, but he did not object, on occasion, to letting Merlin have a go.

Arthur's heated thought processes were abruptly broken off by a strong wallop on his shoulder, dealt by Gwaine, who now flung himself into the chair next to his.

"S'good to meet Lance's mates," he said, grinning jovially. "Hadn't seen him in years, it's great to catch up. And his lovely bride to be...I'm envious, of course." His beaming smile took in all the occupants of the table, and if his appreciative glance lingered a little on Gwen, it did not neglect the Institute's Assistant Director and conservator. He had brought what was left of his Long Island Iced Tea with him, and a second glass, which he set in front of Gwen.

"Gwaine, are you trying to get me drunk?" Gwen asked severely, although the corners of her lips were trembling with held-back laughter.

"I should be so fortunate," quipped Gwaine as Gwen took a tentative sip of the amber-colored rink. "On the other hand, your man would kill me on the spot. He's an honorable soul, but everybody has limits."

Gwen set the glass back down on the table. "Ugh! What do they put in this concoction?"

"Five different kinds of spirits, and some cola," Gwaine replied. "You needn't finish it if you don't want to."

"Oh, it isn't bad, really," Gwen said, offering the glass to Arthur. The Assistant Director shook his head, waving it away. Shortly afterward, Morgana joined them, and ventured a sip before handing the glass to Will.

"I hope nobody has a cold, because you're all going to get each other's bacteria," Arthur said with lofty disdain as the tall glass went round the table. He was talking comfortably with Gwaine, exchanging museum gossip, when he suddenly realized that nearly half of the Long Island Iced Tea had just disappeared down Merlin's throat. He was alerted to this fact by a great deal of gasping and coughing, and turned to see Will patting his junior conservator on the back and offering him a tissue for his watering eyes.

"That stuff's fierce," whispered Merlin. "Didn't mean to gulp it like that, I was thirsty and thought it was my cola."

"_Mer_lin," said Arthur, exasperated.

"A feeble excuse," said Morgana.

"No, _really_," Merlin insisted, still coughing.

As the evening progressed there was more talk about Gwen and Lance's wedding ("The reception can be outdoors, just after the ceremony, if the weather's good!") and whether or not there would be bridesmaids. Gwen thought not; she could simply have Morgana as maid of honor. Leon was friends with a violinist in a string quartet that would almost certainly be happy to have a one-day gig in the country. Morgana thought Mordred should be given some sort of function in the ceremony, in order to make him feel at home with the Institute staff. Gwaine said that he would be proud to stand up with Lance, although he might need to rent a suit, as his own was in sad condition. He had been conversing with everybody at the table in turn, and now he was smiling at Merlin, who was smiling back, all sweetness and light. _Time to take him home_, Arthur thought, _before this Gwaine fellow, who is a nice enough guy in his own way, gets any ideas about my conservator, my bony, beautiful, clever, I-really-can't-live-without-him Merlin_. He slid one hand beneath a sharp, angular elbow and stood up, bringing Merlin with him.

"It's a Monday night, time to go," he said loudly. "See you at nine sharp tomorrow. Time to get some rest."

"Oh,_ rest_," drawled Morgana with her slyest and most evil look, but Arthur paid no attention.

During their walk home, it became plain as day that although Merlin was not exactly drunk, his motor skills were definitely affected by the potent blend of spirits he had inadvertently swallowed. Arthur hooked his arm into Merlin's and prevented him from walking into fire hydrants and other people's front stoops.

"S'plain yourself," said Merlin a little plaintively, stumbling over the threshold of their flat. Arthur gripped his arm more tightly.

"We're home, Merlin."

"I'm not drunk," Merlin said stubbornly, holding onto the doorframe with one hand, his voice just this side of idiotic. "Only sleepy." He disappeared into the bathroom, from which loud splashing sounds could be heard, and finally emerged, eyes half-closed, and tumbled into bed.

"Sorry, Arthur," he mumbled before falling asleep. "Make it up to you tomorrow."

To be honest, Arthur didn't really mind at all. It gave him the opportunity to put his arms round Merlin and cuddle him shamelessly, something he rarely did when his conservator was conscious. He could hold him tenderly, nuzzle those outrageous ears, stroke his hair, become as soppy as he pleased, without Merlin actually realizing how ridiculously besotted he was.

"_Merlin_," Arthur whispered into the rumpled mop of soft, dark hair, before his own eyes closed. The two syllables sounded like a caress, and made him smile. He felt no need or desire to call his companion by any pet nicknames, when the name "Merlin" all on its own was enough to make him shiver. In addition, there was no way he was going to let anybody call him anything so hideous as Artie-Diddums, even in jest.

* * *

**There will be perhaps one more chapter, followed by an Epilogue. Thanks for reading!**


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: The Youngest Pendragon**

In spite of promises from the city that the noisiest part of the street excavation was nearly over, a small army of construction workers showed up for work every morning for the next several days, bringing their arsenal of equipment with them.

"How in God's name can they work in this heat?" asked Morgana, in an awestruck voice.

She, Gwen, and other female staffers of the Institute had suddenly ceased to complain about the irritating banging and booming less than fifty feet from the Institute's entrance. It did not take long for Arthur to discover that this was because the younger members of the hard-hatted crew had a midday ritual that caused passersby to stop in their tracks and had museum employees leaning out of windows or lingering on the front steps. Before breaking for lunch, these deeply tanned and sweat-drenched young men doused themselves and each other with bottles of water, sometimes pulling off their clinging tee shirts and displaying well-developed muscles and impressive abdominal six-packs.

The Assistant Director, Lance, and Leon looked on with dismay as the senior curator, textile conservator, and a gaggle of female volunteers from the library stood hopefully by the second-floor office windows at the beginning of every lunch hour. Morgana had taken to wearing low-cut blouses to work, showing off a great deal of rounded, alabaster flesh to best advantage. This was particularly true when she leaned out of the second storey window, to the good natured amazement of Leon and the disgust of her stepbrother.

"This has got to stop!" Arthur said after three days of this nonsense. "I'm going to go out there and talk to those fellows." It didn't help that some of the construction crew had taken to shouting cheerfully ribald comments at his female employees.

"Steady on, Arthur," murmured Gaius, grabbing the Assistant Director by the arm. "They're only doing their job." The racket outside had recommenced with a vengeance.

"Not to mention," said Geoffrey Monmouth as he passed them in the hall, hands over his ears, "that it's terribly hot, they're probably ravenously hungry, and if you confront them they may not take it kindly."

"_I'm_ certainly not going to confront them," added the Institute's junior conservator, who (to Arthur's relief) had not given any of the muscular young laborers even a second glance. "I've no desire to have my face rearranged."

"You are _such_ a girl's petticoat," snapped Arthur, irritated beyond belief by the noise. "And _no_, Gaius, it isn't their job to strip and pour water all over themselves in front of the ladies."

"I haven't heard any complaints from the ladies in question," replied Gaius dryly. "If I were you, I'd leave things alone. They'll be gone before you know it, anyway."

Casting a final, gloomy look in the direction of the workmen still pounding away at the pavement with jackhammers, Arthur stalked off down the hall towards his office, gesturing at Merlin to follow.

"If it goes on for one more day…" he muttered, wiping his brow. Although it was pleasantly cool inside the building, the sunlight shining through his office window gave a hint of the temperature out of doors. "I know it's not really my place to shout at those men; they don't work for me and they've done nothing more than respond to our colleagues' ogling. They haven't bothered any museum visitors. God, this weather! Merlin, Mordred should be arriving in New York at the end of next week. Would you mind accompanying us to the airport to pick him up? If it's just me and Morgana, we'll probably end up having a row in the middle of the terminal."

"I can't believe you'd really trust me to undertake such a dangerous mission," Merlin said mildly, eyebrows raised. "As I'm such a girl's petticoat."

"Oh, shut up _Mer_lin!" grumbled the Assistant Director. "You know I didn't mean it. Now, where's Morgana with the first draft of the new guidebook text? She promised to have it on my desk by yesterday…her mind is obviously busy with other things, like sweaty construction workers. Bloody hell! Poor Leon has his work cut out for him."

Merlin simply shrugged his shoulders, smiled affably, and kept his mouth shut.

He still had to remind himself, from time to time, that for all his cool poise, outward self-assurance, and masculine swagger, Arthur harbored some deep-seated (and well-hidden) insecurities. Merlin naturally assumed that this had everything to do with his upbringing by a distant, frequently absent, authoritarian father, so when Arthur was in a temper for whatever reason, he sometimes made an effort to stroke the Assistant Director's ego a little, to reassure him without words, and put up with the casual insults tossed in his direction. There were days when his own modest ego shouted at him to stop being such a bloody enabler, but for the moment he was willing to indulge the ruler-in-waiting of the Pendragon Institute.

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The weekend before the youngest Pendragon was due to arrive in New York, a crate and a number of large boxes appeared on Morgana's doorstep.

"Mordred's things, I presume," Arthur said, when informed of this by telephone. As it was a Saturday, he had no real objection to making the short trip to Morgana's flat with Merlin. Morgana had opened the boxes and was unloading them with the aid of Gaius, who had just stopped in with some books on art conservation he thought Mordred might enjoy reading through.

"Where's lover boy?" Arthur asked wryly at the sight of his usually soigné stepsister, wearing a technician's grey apron ("You! In an apron!" he snorted heartily) filched from the Institute, styrofoam packing peanuts sticking to her arms as she pulled books, clothing, and other objects from one of the boxes. "Shouldn't he be giving you a hand?"

"He's gone to buy some groceries," explained Morgana. "Breakfast food, you know, boxes of those ghastly cereals children eat. Those neon-colored loops in disgusting flavors. And some peanut butter, of course, and jam, and plenty of milk. I don't think I need worry about dinner. He loves grownup food, like-"

"I know, artichokes and asparagus and fois gras," Arthur interrupted. "We'll take him out to Le Bernardin or La Grenouille. You'll need to stop spending so much of your salary on clothes, Morgs. Then we can-"

"Yes, yes, yes," said Morgana airily, waving her hands in a dismissive manner. "Of course. Now, Arthur dear, would you and Merlin be kind and put up a new bookshelf for Mordred? I don't want to ask Gaius, and I can't lift those slabs of wood by myself. The pieces are over there."

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"I'm covered with dust," Merlin said, four hours later in their flat, inspecting himself in the hallway mirror. "I need a shower."

Actually, Arthur was even dustier and sweatier than Merlin, as, after assembling the new bookshelves in Mordred's bedroom, he had installed a rod for clothes hangers in the room's unused closet.

"I need a shower more badly than you do," he announced, standing next to Merlin and peering into the same mirror. His conservator studied their reflection with carefully suppressed mirth, noting the smudges of dirt on Arthur's left cheek and along his jawline that emphasized the handsome planes of his face and the pale bronze of his lightly tanned skin.

"You can wait five minutes," Merlin insisted, peeling off his tee shirt as he headed down the hall. "I call first dibs."

"Oh, really?" Arthur murmured, haughtily. "On what grounds?" But Merlin had already vanished, leaving a small pile of grubby clothing on the floor just outside the bathroom door.

Merlin was humming in the shower, half blinded by the spray of warm water and rivulets of shampoo bubbles, when two arms slid around his waist from behind, and an extra pair of hands was suddenly busy soaping his midsection.

"Ar-Arfur," said Merlin through a mouthful of soap and water. "Pfff…what?"

"Four hands are better than two," Arthur replied severely, scrubbing away. "We'll have you clean in no time. Idiot," he added as usual but in a whisper, almost tenderly, before mouthing the lobe of Merlin's ear.

"Erm, right," said Merlin skeptically, although he turned just enough to be able to admire his companion's chest and shoulders, glistening with trickles and streams of water. He felt his breath catch and shivered as Arthur ran soapy fingers down his ribs, lightly enough to tickle but not too much, before bending his head to press his lips between Merlin's shoulder blades. Then he pulled Merlin back against him and leaned round to kiss the sharp little jut of his adam's apple. Merlin tipped his head back, trying to keep the spray off his face, and their wet mouths slid together, and then away, as Arthur pushed him carefully against the shower wall, hands gentle. The marble felt cool against Merlin's forehead, and he put both hands against it, palms flat, to brace himself as Arthur stroked his flanks, and then pressed closer. One hand settled on Merlin's hip, whilst the other did some preparatory work.

When they stepped out of the shower a while later, refreshed, squeaky clean, but somehow much more tired than they had been when they first stepped in, Merlin yawned, mumbled "Nap," and padded into the bedroom. When Arthur followed, he found his young colleague curled up under a single sheet, inky eyelashes resting against the pallor of his cheeks, fast asleep.

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In spite of his misgivings about sending children off on airplanes unescorted, Uther had finally arranged for Mordred to fly to New York by himself. He and Elaine had, of course, driven him to Heathrow and kept an eagle eye on him until he actually boarded his flight. A flight attendant had been instructed to look after him until after they landed, and when Arthur, Merlin, and Morgana caught sight of the boy he looked unusually cheerful, his blue eyes fixed on the pretty, uniformed young woman escorting him through the entrance to the waiting area.

"Is that your family, dear?" the flight attendant asked, and Mordred nodded solemnly before being released into the care of his older half-siblings. Morgana hugged him ferociously and he hugged her back, but Arthur was careful not to imitate Morgana (to Mordred's obvious relief). Instead he shook hands with him seriously, as did Merlin, and the four of them then set off for Manhattan (Arthur had hired a car for the occasion) to have a late lunch.

Mordred was very pleased with his new bedroom, and after lunch he spent nearly an hour lining up various possessions on his desk, and arranging his books on the new shelves, according to size and color. ("I'm fond of the sprout, but he's so incredibly OCD," muttered the Institute's Assistant Director.) He was given some brochures about the school he would be attending in September, and presented with a schoolbag decorated with an enormous tyrannosaurus rex. Mordred eyed the image dubiously until he was told that it had come from the gift shop in the Museum of Natural History.

"It's cool, thanks," he said in his calm, precise treble. "Are you sure this picture is anatomically correct?"

Morgana actually spluttered, trying to come up with some kind of response, and Arthur bit his lip and clenched his fists so as not to snort with amusement. It transpired that Mordred had been talking about the size of the dinosaur's massive hind legs and small, skimpy front ones, but on their way out to dinner (Morgana and Mordred were going to have a cozy meal at home), Arthur laughed almost immoderately and Merlin chuckled at the thought of dinosaurian reproductive organs.

"Just how large were those tyrannosauruses…tyrannosauri…tyrannosaurids…whatever you call the plural?" Arthur asked, coughing.

"I don't really know, about thirty to forty feet long?" Merlin said doubtfully. "But they didn't have, erm, _penises_. At least, I don't think so. Current science says that dinosaurs are the direct ancestors of birds."

"Birds don't have penises," Arthur stated flatly, his eyes going to the fine tendrils of black hair clinging to the side of Merlin's neck in the still fearsome August heat.

"No, of course they don't."

"I'm glad I'm not a bird then," Arthur said absently.

"You've made that very clear," his conservator replied, rolling his eyes.

"Aren't _you_?" Arthur asked, nudging Merlin with his elbow. "I mean, I know you sometimes eat like one, but-"

"Excuse me?" retorted Merlin, feigning grave offense. "I do not eat garden worms and birdseed, thanks very much. Why on earth would I want to be a bird? Except to fly north, and get out of this ridiculous heat. Shall we go to the Druid's Grotto? They have vegetarian dishes and killer air conditioning."

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The next day, Mordred was brought to the Pendragon Institute and shown round the entire building, much of which he remembered from his previous visit. A tiny room, formerly used for document storage, was found for him on the second floor of the building, next to Gwen's textile conservation studio. It had a window overlooking the leafy street, and a simple desk and chair.

"You can do your homework here after school," Arthur said. "The construction should be over with by then."

After a lunch at Hengist's Grill, attended by all of the senior staff, everybody trooped back to the Institute, where they lined up on the front steps for group photos.

"Why is New York so _hot_?" Mordred asked. He himself seemed as cool as a cucumber as he surveyed the perspiring staff of the museum.

"We can email the pictures to Uther," Morgana murmured as they posed on the topmost step, smiling for all they were worth. One of the construction workers had actually offered to take the photographs so that nobody would be missing from the image. "So he can see what a perfect, exemplary family we are. Quite ideal, in fact." Sighing, she fanned herself with a handkerchief, before giving up and patting her brow with it.

"The ideal dysfunctional family," Arthur replied, quietly enough so that Mordred could not hear him. "To Father's way of thinking. Both of his sons have crossed the ocean to get away from him. We've refused to honor his wish to raise the museum's admission fee. We only spend time with him when we simply can't get out of it. Nobody's married to anybody hugely rich, or socially prestigious. In fact, nobody's married, period. Which reminds me." He now raised his voice to normal speaking volume. "Lance is making arrangements for cars to take us to the wedding. Morgs, you can ride with Leon, and Lance's mum and dad. Gaius and Geoffrey are going up with Gwaine…that should make for interesting car conversation. John is driving up on his own, from Washington. Mordred! The Pendragon brothers can ride up there together."

"What about Merlin?" Mordred asked, looking confused.

"Oh, Merlin's coming with me as well," Arthur said matter-of-factly. "Aren't you, _Mer_lin?"

"No, I don't really fancy it," Merlin responded, grinning a little.

"You don't have a choice, Merlin," Arthur said sternly, one eyebrow elevated. "As you haven't got a license. Unless you're hiding a magic carpet from me, or a pet dragon, I'm afraid I'm your only ticket. Now, shall we all get indoors, out of this heat? Before Morgana melts, like the Wicked Witch of the West?"

* * *

**To be followed by an Epilogue.**


	36. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Early September was warm but not humid, it rained enough to ensure that trees and other foliage remained green and lush, but not enough to make for soggy puddles or muddy grass. It was perfect weather for a simple outdoor wedding, complete with an outdoor reception and a string quartet seated beneath a beech tree, playing Mozart softly just before and just after the ceremony. The guests consisted of the Institute staff, some close friends of the bride and groom, and their host, Morgana's friend, a university professor who also collected eighteenth century oil paintings. The professor's rambling, old stone farmhouse and white-painted barn (used as a study) stood a short distance away.

Gwen made a beautiful bride. In true bridal fashion, she was quite flushed and radiant in her gown of heavy, matte white silk. The skirt was very full, but the bodice was fitted and cut low across the chest, with tiny sleeves just off the shoulder. Morgana had helped her weave white rosbuds into her curls. Lance was jaw-droppingly handsome in his morning coat, waistcoat, and striped trousers, and Morgana, the sole bridesmaid, wore a frothy short frock in pale green. Arthur, Merlin, Will, and Leon also wore morning dress, and Gwen insisted that she had never seen so much male eye candy in one place at one time, in her entire life.

"You look godlike, Arthur," she said honestly as the Assistant Director took his place beside her. "I can't think what possessed me to give you up, all those years ago."

Arthur smiled because it was quite plain to see that she was joking. "Want to tell Lance you've changed your mind?" he teased, looking over at the groom who was struggling with his collar and chatting with Gwaine.

"Certainly not," she retorted, giving his arm a little squeeze. "And Arthur," she added in a whisper, "I hope someday you'll admit to how very much you're in love with Merlin. Not everybody can see how much, but I can. And heaven only knows, you're one of the most delicious-looking couples I can think of."

"You're such a hopeless romantic," Arthur said, eyes rolling skyward. "Now just concentrate on your vows and don't trip over the hem of your gown, and everything will be fine. Incidentally, if you can get Lance's mate to stop flirting quite so openly with Merlin, I'd be very much obliged to you."

"Gwaine flirts with everybody, Arthur," Gwen said patiently. "Including me, and your gorgeous stepsister. He'd flirt with you, if you'd let him. I'll ask Lance to have a word with him, but I doubt he'll stop."

True to his word, Arthur walked Gwen down the "aisle" formed by the parted guests to where Lance stood waiting for her with Gwaine and the judge who was to perform the ceremony.

Mordred was the ring bearer.

"He _does_ look like a little hobbit!" Will whispered, and Morgana smacked him on the wrist and shushed him.

Arthur surreptitiously peeked at Merlin, where he was standing with the other guests. The morning coat suited him, his spiky layers of fringe had been trimmed just a bit, and the sunlight had brought a little warm color into his thin cheeks. His blue eyes met Arthur's gaze and held it, and Arthur felt a peculiar sort of warmth flood his own chest, and had the horrible suspicion that he might be blushing. His pulse seemed to have a will of its own, and his palms felt moist. It wasn't just lust (although, if they had been alone, Arthur would have already tugged off Merlin's elegant morning coat and been halfway through unfastening the waistcoat by now), or appreciation of his conservator's odd, understated beauty. It was a ridiculous feeling, Arthur told himself, absolutely, totally ridiculous and girly, and he was going to stop looking at Merlin this very instant, except that he couldn't.

Honestly, if he was going to have to admit to anybody that he was hopelessly in love (serious love) with his junior conservator…

The wedding brunch had been set up on long tables covered with starched white tablecloths, with flowers and mitred, white linen napkins. There was champagne, and then a towering white cake; everything looked supremely elegant but the atmosphere was casual and informal. Guests stood near the tables, nibbling and chatting, and the men shrugged off their morning coats and broke off from eating to kick a football around. The bride discarded her high-heeled slippers to walk barefoot over the grass, and Merlin picked up Arthur's discarded Ray-Bans and put them on. Gwen surveyed him with her head to one side.

"Put the shades _down_, _Mer_lin, you look ridiculous," Arthur muttered, smiling.

"But the morning coat looks wonderful on him," Gwen said. "In fact, all of you gentlemen look wonderful."

"I don't much care for these braces," Arthur replied, rotating his shoulders. He had found his own formal clothes in a garment bag at the back of his closet, but Merlin had fully intended to rent a set for the event, rather than spend a large portion of his salary to purchase one. Ignoring this, Arthur had gone out and bought him everything that was needed, a move that had resulted in a great deal of shouting on Merlin's part when the Assistant Director returned to the flat with shopping bags. Merlin had insisted that Arthur stop spending money on him; they had yelled at each other for a good part of the evening, and then had had truly spectacular make up sex afterwards.

"Let's go for a little stroll," Arthur said now, gesturing at Merlin. "I've never been here before. Join us, Mrs Lance?"

"No thanks, love, I think I'll have a slice of this divine cake," Gwen murmured, waving them away. "Don't be too long, though, or it'll all be gone by the time you get back."

Arthur set off through the trees, eyes moving along the little trail in the grass. He could hear Merlin ambling behind him, crashing absent-mindedly through undergrowth and small bushes. Within a few minutes they found their way into a small clearing, and paused.

The sunlight fell in dappled warmth all around them; the setting couldn't have been more poetic if it had been scouted by a cinematographer, or computer-generated for a special effects seminar at a film school. It was almost too much, but Arthur wasn't really taking it in, he was eyeing Merlin, who was staring back at him, perplexed. Arthur maneuvered him gently back against a conveniently situated tree, put his hands on the rough bark, on either side of Merlin so that he couldn't get away, and kissed him deeply. Merlin made a tiny, breathy sound against his mouth and kissed back.

Arthur curved one hand around the back of Merlin's head and continued to kiss him until they were both weak at the knees. The short, tufted hair under his palm felt like prickly silk, and Arthur laughed a little shakily as he broke their mouth to mouth contact, resting his brow against Merlin's.

"You're like a porcupine, Merlin," he murmured, letting his fingers comb through the inky darkness. "All spiny and mysterious."

"What makes you think porcupines are mysterious?" asked Merlin, sounding dazed and almost groggy. "They…erm…" Arthur was nipping lightly at his upper lip. Merlin waited for him to say _"Mine!" _or something similarly possessive, as he often did when he was feeling amorous, but Arthur was silent and simply went back to kissing.

There was a tiny, crackling sound, as of leaves and twigs underfoot, and they both turned their heads to see Morgana stepping into the clearing, her eyes lifting from the path to the unexpected sight of the two young men embraced against the trunk of a tree. She stopped short, her mouth opening in surprise, and blushed, but her eyes lit up with a kind of gleeful delight as she made a half-heartedly apologetic gesture.

"_Morgana_!" Arthur grated out testily, stepping back.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she said, flapping her arms and retreating. "Wasn't following you, really. Splendid wedding, don't you think? Come back and have some cake."

"Morgana's been dying to catch us at _something_," Arthur said, frowning, as he watched his stepsister walk away. "At anything. Such a voyeur, I mean voyeuse. She probably imagines us in bed together all the time."

No way," stammered Merlin, turning red.

"Oh yes, I'm sure she's got a picture in her mind, of us rolling about in slow motion, sighing langorously, like people do in the movies, whilst the Flower Duet from "Lakmé" plays in the background." *****

"Oh," said Merlin, still red-faced. "Well, let her keep her fantasies, then. The truth is so much more…erm…rambunctious?"

"I don't know if that's quite the right word," Arthur replied. "We'd better get back to the rest of the party before Morgana tells them something really outrageous. And before Mordred eats up all the cake."

By the time they returned to the tables of food, Merlin was still faintly flushed, and his hair was sticking up where Arthur had forgotten to brush it back down. The cake had been largely demolished, although Gwen had insisted that the others leave two good-sized slices for the Assistant Director and junior conservator. Mordred watched rather regretfully as Arthur downed his slice in three huge bites.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Pendragon step-siblings were pleased to see that Mordred had enjoyed Gwen and Lance's wedding almost as much as the adults had. Apart from that, being the unflappable sort of child that he was, he was taking life in New York very much in stride. He organized all of his belongings in his new room within a day, and memorized the bus route to and from his new school. He also learnt to navigate the areas around the Institute and Morgana's flat, and insisted on being allowed to go out by himself. Uther had muttered nervously about kidnappers and the dangers of the New York streets, but Arthur assured him that hardly anybody in the States knew the extent of the Pendragon family wealth, and that the streets of Manhattan were not especially dangerous – particularly in Morgana's posh neighborhood.

When his schedule permitted, Arthur picked his half brother up from school and brought him to the Institute, and when he was too busy, Merlin sometimes came in his place. Because of Mordred's dark hair, ivory-pale complexion, and blue eyes, it was generally assumed, by the school staff, that they were related. In spite of his overall stoicism and poker-faced demeanor, Mordred did display – on rare occasions – an actual sense of mischief, and once he became aware of this rumor he took a childlike pleasure in bamboozling teachers into thinking it was true.

"Hullo, Cousin Merlin!" he chirped loudly when Merlin appeared at the school's front door, where his maths teacher stood monitoring pupil departures. "Ready to go now. Lots of reading homework."

"Hi, Uncle Merlin!" he called, in front of his English teacher two days later.

"Hey, bro!" he said the following week, but here Merlin drew the line, and quietly explained to his confused music teacher that he and Mordred were not connected by blood.

"Mordred, erm, that won't make your father happy," he remonstrated gently as he walked the youngster to the Institute. "Look, I'm glad you're picking up American slang and getting on with your classmates and all. But you can't _lie_ to your teachers, or to anybody for that matter, and tell them we're related. It isn't right."

"Yes Dad," Mordred replied ingenuously, and Merlin had to laugh, although he gave him a little lecture afterwards, and warned him about the importance of making a good first impression with his school's faculty.

"Yo, no sweat, man," Mordred said earnestly. "Won't do it again," he added, and Merlin checked to make sure his fingers weren't crossed.

Arthur lectured Mordred as well (being careful not to sound like Uther), but he also laughed about the whole thing, privately with Merlin. And he did tell his young half brother to please stop calling him dude.

It never took Mordred long to finish his homework. Morgana was planning to buy him a MacBook, but for the time being he typed his school essays on Arthur's new, just-arrived laptop, a _red and gold_ custom-colored affair that was the subject of never ending jokes by most of the staff. Homework completed, he often went downstairs to the paper conservation studio to watch Merlin work. Every now and then, he trotted next door to objects conservation, where Will unbent enough to allow Mordred to examine his final treatment of Lord Moldywart. Arthur even discovered him in front of the Courtiers Tapestry, chewing on his knuckles and frowning. When asked what he was doing, he replied that he had done some research and was trying to determine the identities of the various figures.

"Can you believe this kid?" Will asked Lance later, rolling his eyes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Not surprisingly, Elaine periodically mailed boxes of things she felt her young son would need in the wilderness of New York City. A Barbour, underwear and socks, Mordred's favorite sweets, and packets of tea ("They _do_ sell these things in the States, Mum," groaned Morgana) were among the contents of the various brown-wrapped packages delivered by the postal service.

One morning not long after the wedding, a rather large parcel arrived from London, but it was delivered to Arthur's flat rather than Morgana's, and was addressed to him. Arthur was fairly certain it was some sort of Care Package for his half brother and sighed with the expectation that he would have to lug the bloody thing to Mordred's new home. He hefted it, finding it surprisingly light, and ripped off the brown paper wrapping, pulling off the lid of the box inside. He half expected a cascade of English choc bars, and was astonished to find a carefully folded garment of red velvet within.

It was his crimson Thriller jacket.

Arthur struggled into it, being careful not to rip the seams. He had grown taller since he was sixteen, and his chest was broader, but the jacket still fit. It was tight, however, so he left it unfastened. Not wanting to make any noise, he toed off his shoes and crept down the hall to the bedroom, wanting to surprise Merlin, and vaguely hoping that he would find him naked.

His young conservator was indeed devoid of clothing, but he had washed and shaved and was lying on his side, wearing his horn-rimmed glasses, the bedsheet pulled up to his waist. He was perusing the pages of the newspaper with concentration, and as Arthur watched, he located the Arts Section and studied its headlines.

"There's a short article about the Courtiers Tapestry in the Arts Section," he said without looking up. "They refer to the exhibition of Sigan's things next year, and there's even mention of the recent marriage of the Institute's arms and armor curator to the textile conservator."

Merlin continued to stare at the front page of the Arts Section, drawing his brows together. Then the pink tip of his tongue appeared and swiped his upper lip…and Arthur pounced.

"Ow!" said Merlin, who hadn't seen it coming. After he had caught his breath, he looked his assailant over and his mouth fell open.

"I can't believe it still fits," Arthur said with a satisfied air. "It's too tight, but you don't really notice unless I bring my arms together."

"It's awesome," mumbled Merlin seriously, sitting up and running his fingers lightly over the red velvet and the still-shining buttons.

"I thought you'd be pleased to see it," Arthur said, peeling himself out of the garment in question. "But I can't wear it out of doors, not any more. Perhaps I should give it to Mordred?" He tossed the jacket onto a chair, where it was presently joined by his shirt and trousers.

"It would be almost a shame to give it away," Merlin half-whispered musingly. "But if, as you say, it's too tight for you-"

"You're not going to tell me I'm fat, are you?" Arthur said somewhat reproachfully. "Because I _am not_. I'm fighting fit, and I exercise regularly. I don't take this matchless physique for granted, you know."

"You take _me_ for granted," Merlin replied, suppressing a grin with remarkable success. "And when you fling yourself on me, you never ask me if I want to or not."

Arthur replied by flinging himself on his conservator with a great deal of vigor and climbing on top almost instantly. Merlin put up very little resistance, and anyway, they were laughing too hard for him to even try to disentangle himself. If he pretended to struggle it was only for the sheer pleasure of feeling the play of Arthur's muscles beneath his hands. After a few moments of horseplay, his breathing seemed to be running races against his heartbeat, and he caught his lip between his teeth as Arthur slid a hand beneath his back, moving it down to spread flat against the little hollow curve at his waist, then lifting him.

"What if I said I didn't want to?" Merlin asked, looking up at Arthur and smiling faintly.

"_Merlin_," muttered Arthur irritably, but there was a note of entreaty underneath.

Merlin relented and put both hands into Arthur's blond hair, tugging him down.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I didn't mean to bite _quite _that hard," Arthur said two rounds later, carefully sliding out from beneath an armful of Merlin.

"Prat," Merlin mumbled feelingly. He raised himself on one elbow, took Arthur by the chin, and turned his face slightly towards him. Then he lifted that pink upper lip with a cautious finger and inspected the sharpness of those eyeteeth.

"Merlin, what are you _doing_?" Arthur asked as distinctly as he could with Merlin's finger in his mouth.

"Are you sure you weren't one of those prehistoric sabre-toothed cats in a previous life?" Merlin responded, withdrawing his finger. "Or at least a vampire?"

"Vampires don't have previous lives, idiot," Arthur replied, smirking. "They just have one really long one."

"Perhaps you're simply _related_ to one," Merlin said with conviction.

"I realize that vampires are a hot item in popular culture these days," Arthur murmured, frowning a little. "But I have no desire to join the ranks of the so-called undead. They _are_ actually dead, aren't they? I mean, in the books they have no pulse or anything, do they? Dracula can't go out in the sun, can he? That sort of life - bloody hell, it isn't really a _life_, is it? - is not for me."

"That's good," said Merlin, and flopped back down next to him.

"Yes it _is_ good," said Arthur, suddenly grinning. "Unless _you _happen to fancy necrophilia."

"That's disgusting," said Merlin, who of course had absolutely no interest in anything even resembling necrophilia. To prove this, he took his unguarded and semi-exhausted Assistant Director quite by surprise, mastering him with his clever touch, the softness of his pillowy lips, and a limber, wiry body whose strength Arthur had a tendency to underestimate. Having gained the upper hand, so to speak, he worked Arthur over for a good while, making certain that he arched and writhed and moaned in such a way as to indicate that he was very much alive, and that his heart, his lungs, and other parts were in perfect working order.

"My mistake," he mused when it was over, and Arthur was panting beside him. "You bear absolutely no resemblance to a vampire. Apart from those teeth."

"I suppose you're very pleased with yourself," mumbled Arthur, cracking one eye open. Then he stretched and yawned with pleasurable fatigue. "Taking advantage of my temporarily weakened state." He opened both eyes, and then narrowed them dangerously when he saw Merlin grin. "I have never been to bed with a more insolent, impossible person in…my…entire…life."

"Right," said Merlin in a voice of total disbelief. Arthur couldn't help himself; he chuckled, and brought his hand up to rest on Merlin's cheek. Merlin turned his head a little and kissed Arthur's wrist, and then brought his own hand up to grasp it.

"You're mine," he said conversationally, and waited to see what would happen next.

"I can't believe your insolence," Arthur replied in a voice of completely phony wrath. "And I'm going to pay you back, when I'm feeling a bit, er, stronger."

Their eyes met, and they both smiled.

"Right," Merlin said again, stifling a yawn and pulling at the rumpled sheet.

"Shut up, _Mer_lin," Arthur breathed, and was asleep even before Merlin tucked the sheet carefully around his shoulders.

* * *

***In the film "The Hunger," a modern vampire story, the Flower Duet from the opera "Lakme" played in the background as Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve made love.**

**As for vampires, I've been enjoying the Merlin fic "Once Bitten," by SnowWhiteQueen21.**

**For those who haven't noticed Bradley James' lovely sharp teeth, watch the water ride section of the video extras from the Series One DVDs (also available on youtube).**

**Thank you to all the readers who've had the patience to slog through 35-plus chapters. :)**


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